


How To Unfold a Heart

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Angst, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, BAMFs do that, Case Fic, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mentioned Eurus Holmes, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Slow Burn, Topping from the Bottom, yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25527928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: To Sherlock’s dismay, John’s return to Baker Street with Rosie is only temporary. Sherlock’s daily visits to Regent Park with John and Rosie illuminate his lost childhood memories and missed opportunities. But with each trip to the park, Sherlock also feels a growing sense of hope. That is until the past horrors return unexpectedly in a cryptic note folded in the shape of a heart. To decipher the message, Sherlock must uncover the nature of the hearts around him, including his own.Post S4. First person Sherlock POV. Case fic.Written for Fandom Trumps Hate (which needs our support now more than ever before) and for the talented bluebellofbakerstreet, who requested some BAMF John busting in and saving the day along with fluff, because, um, BAMFs are softies at heart (and that's exactly what this story is about).Thank you so much to hotshoeagain for the incredible beta, advice and suggestions. You are a star.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 260
Kudos: 368
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Comfort from the Uncomfortable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/gifts).



Foul is fair or fair is foul, sunny or cloudy, sitting on the bench in Regent’s Park has become my Sunday afternoon. It’s not a chore, and it will never ever be one. Watching Rosie grow delights me. It’s a wonder watching John watching Rosie.

I wish I could say it completes me, but I cannot.

I have long thought about what it might be like to have a complete relationship with John Watson. It is hard not to be reminded of it as John raises and lowers Rosie on the seesaw with one hand. 

We lost our chance over and over. I’m married to my work, my great fall off Bart’s, or Mary’s shot to my chest. Yet after all these long months and years, I have been granted the opportunity to watch them together. At last I have hope. My heart bangs and crashes like cymbals as John’s hand pushes the green painted board down. Rosie squeals with delight as she soars up high. My stomach flips when it’s time to lower her. John doesn’t let go. No, he would never do that. Hand hovering over the board, he allows for the thrill of the drop. He let’s gravity take Rosie down, but he pads the blow before she hits the ground and applies the perfect opposing force. She slows just enough. Her bottom bounces as the seesaw bumps the ground. Rosie’s laughter is clean and clear. It reminds me of butterflies fluttering against the blue skies.

I feel as if I’m on the same seesaw with the same unspeakable highs and lows with John in control on the opposite end. Some days, I am suspended in the air, waiting for that stomach-flipping drop. Other days, I am in free-fall, never to land, never to have that satisfying moment at the bottom like Rosie. Will I never know the joy of what it is to safely land?

I sigh. At least John and Rosie are with me back home at Baker Street. I know I should feel cheated or that I’m in limbo, but today I am fine with the way it is. Today is fair.

Her little fists grip the handle tightly. She giggles sweetly. Rosie soars into the blue air sky above. Her blonde curls shimmer and bounce. And again, he makes certain to let his end of the board spring to the ground with just enough force that the bump sends her bottom off the wood but keeps her steady in her seat.

“Higher, daddy, higher!” she squeals with glee, with no worries that the next bump could propel her into mid-air. It seems three-year-old Rosie and I have that same taste for excitement but with one difference: I know what it is for John to let go of his end. I remember too well those times when he did. 

As he lowers her safely, the breeze whips John’s hair off his forehead. Since I first met him, the ratio of gold to silver strands has reversed, but the value to me is beyond measure. 

“It’s time to go,” John says.

She’s not happy when her dad says it’s time to go. “No, I want to stay. More, more,” she begs. 

John picks her up and she kicks her legs. Her little pink trainers dart around as she squirms in his arms in a desperate effort to get back down into the seat again.

I am so much like her.

I walk next to John. He gives up carrying her, and sets her down. He holds Rosie’s tiny hand, and she follows along with us. We’re a domestic snapshot of what might be as we walk together. 

I had a dream two nights ago that John and I were picking out bumblebee wallpaper and a cozy baby bed. There was no Mary in this dream world and there never was. Rosie was our child. I would like to say it was my subconscious mind at work, but it wasn’t. It’s what I really wish could have been. 

More than one psychologist has told me that dreams are the window to the unconscious. From personal evidence, I know it is true. It is my window, my escape, and my prison. But it’s not real. It’s a window that separates me from the outside. I can’t touch, I can’t hear. The bees buzz from flower to flower, and I can only observe. What I feel for John remains unspoken. It’s my fondest dream to wake up and stand in the garden next to hives, to tell John what’s in my heart. I want to hear the bees hum, to feel the breeze of summer, and the crisp nights of fall. I want to speak what’s in my heart, but my voice fails me. I am afraid of the answer I may get, so I say nothing. Still, my dreams mock me and shout: “Ha, you fool! Here is the life you will never have.” 

He is not mine, she is not mine. I love them like mine, but they are not. I still hope that they might be. I dream that John and I hold hands as we walk through Regent Park. I dream that John hogs the blankets, and his beard burns my face when he kisses me. Then I wake up. 

At least he lives with me again. At least he is here with Rosie.

I could ask how long, but I don't want to know the answer. Why ever would I want to know if there will be an end? Endings hurt. It’s best to not think about it and stuff it into my mind palace in a room and lock the door. Until that day, I have them near me. I no longer have to pretend John is upstairs in his room. He is here where he belongs. 

I pretend it really doesn’t matter. They live with me, and that’s enough. Emptying pots and pans from the cupboards, crayons scribbled on the walls, and tiny overalls with apple juice stains on the bib, I cherish. They are the talismans of my longing. I push back the memories of the dark time before when I didn’t even have them.

_ “Mary is in every space. I can’t live there. Not with the memories,” he’d said only weeks ago. His eyes were misted over, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.  _

_ “Your room is still upstairs.” _

Stupid invitation. I should have said so much more.

I should have said, “Your room is the way you left it, waiting for you,” or “You and Rosie are more than welcome to come live here,” or even better “Please come home where you belong.”

Despite my awkward invitation, they came to stay, at least for a while. John had said, “Until we find somewhere suitable.” 

Thank god, he hasn’t looked. For the last few days, I’ve hidden that section of the paper from John. Each time John searches on the internet, I distract him with a case or a question or an inappropriate comment.

It is so easy to overlook pink rattles on the coffee table and wooden building blocks on the floor. I embrace it all along with Rosie’s stuffed Teddy in my chair. In fact, as we walk, she holds Teddy to my face, and I kiss him because it means they’re here with me walking back from Regent’s Park. 

“Good, Teddy,” she says. “Give a kiss.”

I give Teddy his kiss. “Very good Teddy,” I smile back.

I cherish every Teddy kiss and sippy cup because one day we’ll have to pack those away. But not today. Today I am happy walking near them. Tomorrow I hope to still be happy. As long as I keep John from moving out.

I decide I need to stop looking at my life as what I can never have and remind myself of what I do.

I watch Rosie giggling as John chases her out of Mrs. Armstrong’s flower bed. My breath catches in my throat and I know I am happy. 

_ I am _ .

We climb the steps to 221B, and as usual, after the first four stairs, Rosie smiles at me and raises her arms. “Pick me up,” she insists. “Up!” and I carry her the rest of the way as she squeals just to hear the echo. At the top of the stairs, she always, always squeezes my nose between her chubby fingers and blurts out, “Beep, beep!” 

Her face lights up with a wide smile as she pinches my nose. “Honk, honk!” I say, and she laughs at my silly voice. 

Why did I ever believe Mycroft when he told me caring is not an advantage? There was a time before John when I thought love wasn’t something that I was capable of feeling. My heart didn’t know army doctors or little girls with runny noses existed. I was wrong. I know now that I always had loved. I just didn’t recognize it. I can love. I do love. I love John Watson. I love Rosie Watson. I even love my obnoxious, pompous brother.

I think about this too much and too often. I think about it as we take turns watching Rosie and making dinner. Tonight it’s quick and easy, warming up chicken fingers in the oven with beans and potatoes on the stove. 

Rosie handles her chicken fingers the same way she picks up insects on the pavement. She plucks each up between her fingers and holds it out for all to see. She eats every piece of processed chicken on her plate. She also begs for mine. I gladly give her the disgusting morsels. 

I’m reminded of my own childhood, Mycroft and I with Mum and Dad at the table. And if I reach back, I can now see Eurus. She hated carrots as much as I did. 

After supper it’s on to pajamas and a story. John takes her upstairs and tucks her in, but I’m the storyteller. Tonight it’s _ Goodnight Moon _ . I read it to her three times and then “one more” before she’s fast asleep. It’s always the last words she says before she shuts her sleepy eyes. 

I gaze down at her before turning off the light. I look around the room. Two beds in John’s small room is a tight squeeze, but we’ve made it work. There will be a time soon when Rosie needs her own room. She can only share one with John for so long. That would only prompt John to begin anew looking for another place. Mrs. Hudson says I should speak to him about staying. 

I thought it best to have a good plan in place first before I ask. Hudders and I have been making plans on how to expand our living space. I have floor plans ready. 

As I come back downstairs, I see John has made some tea for us. He recently found a smokey, spicy blend from the new tea shop on Baker Street, and it’s become our favorite. 

“This is addicting,” I say. 

John agrees. He takes a sip and moans before he gathers his laptop and takes a seat in the old wingback. I found another floral chair. I took particular care to find one that not only resembled John’s former chair, but felt the same when seated, the cushions hugging all the same spots. He crosses his legs and takes another sip before he sets his tea aside with his laptop in front of him on his lap. As he writes on his blog, I lie on the couch and watch him under lowered lids. I sprawl out and sip my tea, resting my laptop on my stomach. I review some emails of possible new cases, then decide to read over what John has written recently. It’s always good entertainment. He hides his posts before publishing them, but I know the password.

Nothing of interest in the current post he’s editing. I scroll to his most current entry. I’m reading the comments when I come upon this:  _ “You are one BAMF, Dr. Watson.” _

I flex and curl my toes before I pop my head up from my screen and look over at John. He’s pecking away two-fingered on his keyboard. I clear my throat. He doesn’t notice. 

“John?” I say to direct his attention.

He harrumphs at my interruption. His reading glasses slide down his nose as he raises his eyebrow. My heart speeds up in my chest.

I stare at him, puzzled. I know he’s annoyed I’ve interrupted him, but I must know.

“John, what is a BAMF?”

“A what?” John blinks.

“Jacob Sowersby wrote on your blog that you are a BAMF. What is a BAMF?”

John shakes his head and laughs at me. “A bad ass mother fucker.”

“ _ Really _ ?” What my voice conveyed was shock that I had been blind to this. I honestly didn’t mean for my tone to sound incredulous, when in actuality every cell in my body believed this to be unquestionably true. When watching James Bond movies and that atrocious Die Hard series, I have often heard the term from John’s own lips. Reflecting on John’s past actions and flashes of him standing, feet apart with his SIG-Sauer in hand, I know it’s true. 

“Yeah, Sowersby wrote that.”

Acceptance. John knows he is one. Of course a BAMF knows they’re a BAMF.

In that moment of enlightenment, I realize what I’d missed all these years. I understand human nature to a degree. I’ve studied it to enhance my deductive reasoning. John has always been my go to. He is a paradox. I realize that this side of John Watson helps to define him. It may explain his reticence about admitting to that part of his sexuality, even to himself. As a bad ass motherfucker, he most probably has a certain persona to uphold. I think of the references to these characters and common traits. 

John continues to write as I google “Bad Ass Motherfucker” + definition. Along with youtube videos and Samuel Jackson links, I find an enlightening blog about the subject. 

John yawns as he closes his laptop and sets it on the table next to him. “I’m going to bed. Turn off the lights when you go.”

John stands and stretches. 

“You can turn them off now if you like,” I say.

John nods and clicks off the lamp near him, but leaves the one near me on. 

I watch John climb the stairs with a sigh, then return to my screen.

According to the blog on twelve characteristics of BAMFs, they take comfort in being uncomfortable. It’s not just metaphorical. They love tight spaces. Closets, ends of alleyways. Give them a tight space, and they revel in it. I knew that about John immediately. That’s why I lured him in with the words “could be dangerous ...” and John was there body and soul.

There were so many instances where we were together in a tight space, our sides pressed together, mouths only a breath apart, yet we did nothing. 

I shut my laptop and turn off the light behind the couch that John missed. Moonlight is all that illuminates the living room as I go into my mind palace. Within it, I recall John as the badassmofo.

_ “Get your elbow out of my bloody face,” John giggles.  _

_ I shush him when someone enters the room. Ahh, Mrs. Faberton. His heat radiates into me as his body presses down on me. Yes, it was a very large trunk, but there was very little space left inside. John’s breath is moist on my neck. John’s gun pokes against my hip. Or at least I think it’s John’s gun. I find myself as hard as his weapon and try to move away from the friction that’s John Watson, but only create more.  _

_ I hear Mrs. Faberton’s heels click across the floor and out the door. I wait twenty seconds before I tell John to throw the lid back. _

I replay all the times we have been in similar tight spaces. Hours later, I open my eyes. It’s morning, and here comes the sun. I do enjoy that Beatles song. I play it for John on the violin along with other popular tunes that are his favorites. Both he and Rosie enjoy them. John says my classical spin on this song gives him “a rush of the sun as it pops out of the clouds” and it indeed makes him feel “it’s alright.” 

I feel that the conclusion that I’ve come to regarding John is very much like that. It’s indeed enlightening and makes me feel the world is a good place. 

There was a time when it was unusual for me to be introspective. After John, it’s a constant in my life. Prior to the day I met him at Bart’s, I rarely looked inside myself to see if I “am okay.” I find that since, it’s been a question we pose to each other regularly. 

I wish I had passed that introspection beyond checking for okay and looked to why much sooner. While it is healthy to recognize one feels, understanding the cause is key. It also prevents misunderstandings. 

Although John was one to hold the truth and truthfulness close to his chest, as my moral compass, he still is blind to the truth of us and what we are to each other. I am sorry I have lied, not just about the big things, but the little. I wonder how often we have both said we are okay when we are indeed not okay. This perspective shifted with my heart—or the one that I denied for so long. When will I stop telling John I am okay when my heart is in pain.

I told myself that I gave up that chance. I’d let that choice slip through my fingers like sand. I thought I’d lost the chance long ago. I’m okay, I’d said. I’m married to my work, I’d said. I had a beach full of sand, then it came to a few grains in an hourglass. I must turn the hourglass over soon, before it is too late.

Somewhere between thinking about an extra bedroom and John’s new acronym, I fall asleep.

I wake to hear Rosie singing, _ “Oh, do you know the muffin man” _ before the creaking stairs even give them away. 

I don’t need to see them to know that John has his arms full of a whole lotta Rosie. Take comfort to the sound of John slippers padding down the stairs. He moves through the kitchen, and he stops in the doorway to see me sprawled on the couch. 

“You didn’t go to bed?” His faded flannel housecoat brushes the doorway. 

I sit up and run my hand through my tangle of hair. “Dozed off here again, I’m afraid.”

“Down,” she demands. 

John sets Rosie on the floor, and her bare feet slap against the floor. She races across the room and throws herself into my lap. I now have Rosie flailing on top of me, filled with giggles and too much energy for seven-thirty in the morning.

There’s something about the way John smiles when he watches Rosie and I together. It’s happy and sad at the same time. 

“I’ll make coffee.” John does. And breakfast. Eggs and toast with tomatoes. Again. 

Rosie never tires of the meal, except ...

“No toe-ma-toes.” 

It's the same every breakfast.


	2. Unexpect the Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some excitement, an unexpected guest, and we get a taste of BAMF John.

Of course I’ve committed the blog on BAMFs to memory. Another characteristic it stated was that BAMFs embrace the out of place or weird. It is not only acceptable, it’s revered. No wonder John became fascinated with me. It was as simple as John loves danger. It’s who he is.

John met me and embraced the living on the edge, but he also wasn’t put off that I kept hands and hearts in the freezer. He wasn’t surprised that I deleted the solar system. He looked at my eccentricities as acceptable, but he never called me a freak. He knew how it hurt me and never tolerated anyone labeling me as such. 

Then I fell and Mary happened. From the start, he knew I, Sherlock Holmes, had a heart. He even thought I gave it away to Irene Adler. He still thinks this despite that I’ve told him the contrary.

John, no. I gave my heart to you long ago, but you never realized. You still don’t see. Although a BAMF never misses the mark, at least John Watson does when it comes to identifying the object of my affections.

At times I wonder if he didn’t pull back to save himself. I hurt him terribly when I faked my death. He blamed me for Mary’s death. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing by protecting his heart.

“Unexpect the expected,” the blog on characteristics of a BAMF said. Maybe John wouldn’t shy from the truth. Maybe I’m the one wrong. Maybe he’s expected it all along. I just never told him.

At ten o’clock, someone knocks loudly on the door downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson usually gets the door this early and leaves the late afternoon and evening guests to us, but she’s off for the weekend with “a friend.” She’s been off with a friend frequently these last weeks. 

I decide to answer the door and leave John to his blog (again). 

The banging is persistent and increases in volume with each stair. 

_What is this?_ I open the door to a man clad head-to-toe in shiny, too-tight black leotards. His liquid blue eyes squint out of the slits of a black mask. Comical cat ears are attached to its hood and tufts of his fiery-red hair poke out from under the mask. He dramatically plants his legs apart and crosses his arms, making his ample belly jiggle over the thick black belt that’s squeezing what appears to be his midsection. I assume this is some sort of joke. A silly superhero sent to harass me from someone at Scotland Yard. It must be. No one wears a cape anymore.

“Are you the great Sherlock Holmes?” he asks.

“If you have to ask, you need to leave.” I raise an eyebrow and look at his scuffed black boots. 

“Oh, this,” he gazes down at his outfit. “Sorry, it’s not like I had the opportunity to change,” he says. He pushes past me and begins up the stairs. 

“I did not invite you in.” I reach for him, but his suit slips in my hand. 

“But I need to speak to you. In private.”

“Not without an invitation!” I bark at him.

This simply can not happen. Rosie lives here with us. Lunatics are no longer allowed in our flat. Especially lunatics dressed in black tights, hood, and cape. 

He’s clambering up the stairs. You would think a catman would be cat-like. I race after him.

As he’s halfway up the stairs, I latch onto his ankle and pull him down. “Get out,” I say. 

He’s breathing hard through the mask. “Let go of me,” he shouts. 

The commotion brings John. At the top of the stairs, the door swings open, and John stands there in a checkered shirt and jeans, hands on his hips. 

“Sherlock? What the …?”

I’ve got the catman firmly by the ankle, and he’s clawing at the steps as I drag him down with a thunk, thunk, thunk. I’m almost to the bottom, and I grab his other leg to pull him down the last two. I take a hold of a handful of leotards and pull. His not-so superhero tights slip down, leaving his arse exposed and up in the air. 

John’s laughter echoes in the stairwell. I blink at them both.

“Holy Nightmare!” John gasps. “I'm being flashed by Batman!” 

_Hmm. So that’s what this costume is_. He doesn’t look anything like a bat. The cape somewhat resembles a bat’s wings, but the rest? 

John’s fit of laughter continues, and he braces his hand against the wall to steady himself as he stumbles down the stairs toward us. 

“It’s not like I _wanted_ to be out in public in this,” says the not-so Batman. “I was leaving my niece's birthday party.”

John stops just above us on the stairs.

“Alright, Bruce Wayne,” John says, wiping his eyes. “Stop struggling, and Sherlock will let go of you.”

I am stunned. “John, you know this man?”

“No, I don’t but … you don’t know who Bruce Wayne is? Of course you don’t.”

I realize then it must be Batman’s alias. _Of course, all superheroes have an alias, and John Watson knows that sort of trivia._

“What _is_ your name?” I ask. It’s the one detail I do need to know. Despite his present attire, I do know that he is single, is a systems analyst at Barclays Bank, owns a golden retriever, and lives in a flat in West London. 

“Abraham Markham.”

I release him as John asks him why he's dressed like this, and the man flips around, hiking up his tights as he does. “They thought it was funny and wouldn’t let me change!” 

Aww, I know that face John is making. Unexpect the expected. John’s assessing. He’s determined that the man in tights is not a threat. 

“That’s not usually what the Caped Crusader says,” John laughs. 

“This is humiliating and a long story,” he says. 

“I don’t have time for long stories.” I frown. So, not a joke. Donovan or Gavin have nothing to do with this. “Be quick.”

What little I can see of his round face is beet red, and his mask is soaked with sweat that’s burning his eyes. He tries to sit up, and speaks so fast that his words slur together.

“First I’m kidnapped from the birthday party before they even serve the cake, then I’m tied up and thrown into the boot of a car and left there all night, and then they took me out this morning only to give these stupid instructions. They threw me back in the boot and let me out on the street. I’m to deliver a message.”

I’ve completely let go of him, and he manages to stand. He looks nothing like a bat. He’s bouncing up and down from one leg to another on the steps. Bats do _not_ bounce.

“Message? What’s the message?” John asks.

“They told me if I didn’t come to 221B Baker Street and give the famous Sherlock Holmes a letter that they would make me and mine disappear.”

“Give me the letter,” I say.

“Do you think I could use your bathroom first?” he asks. The red eyes beneath the mask reveal another reason why they’re watering. 

I say, “ _No, you cannot_ ,” at the same time John says, “I am afraid to ask. Why?”

Markham crosses his thick thighs and stares at John as if he’s the biggest idiot to walk the earth. 

“He’s been in the boot of a car all night,” I say, “but I will not allow him upstairs.”

“Please mate, I'm desperate for a piss, just let me use the toilet, and I won't touch nuttin' else," he pleads.

John shrugs. “Come on, follow me.”

“Do you think this is wise, John?” 

“What choice do we have? Let him urinate on our stairs? Mrs. Hudson doesn’t mind cleaning up after us, but I think that’s asking a bit much.” John pushes the door open and lets him in. “Besides, don’t you want to know who sent him?” 

John leads him through our home, and Rosie verifies my earlier conclusion and squeals, “Kitty! It’s a kitty!”

John opens the door to the loo, and our unwelcome guest races inside. 

I grimace. I will now have to disinfect, which is only marginally better than sterilizing the stairway. 

We wait for him. The water runs. At least he washed his hands. He comes out, his mask is off and he’s a mess of wild red hair.

“The letter,” I demand. 

“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” Rosie says running toward him. John swoops her up to keep her away. “Rosie, pet the kitty?”

“No petting the kitty. The letter,” I say again. I hate repeating myself.

Abraham Markham hands it to me. It’s folded into the shape of a heart with my name on the front. My own heart thumps rapidly. I’ve only just remembered part of that piece of me, but I do know her handwriting. 

Not a letter. A note. I unfold it. 

It’s a poem. Not a riddle, not a puzzle. I read it aloud for John to hear:

**I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.**

**And what did I see I had not seen before?**

**Only a question less or a question more;**

**Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.**

**Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,**

**House without air, I leave you and lock your door.**

**Wild swans, come over the town, come over**

**The town again, trailing your legs and crying.**

Although I recognize the poem immediately, the man dressed as Batman looks at me expectantly as if I should immediately know the message hidden within.

John wipes his face with his hands. “Not another bloody game!”

I, who used to live for the game, feel numb. I want no part of this. Not from her.

“How are swans and bats even related?” John sighs. 

“They both have wings and both have homosexual relationships,” the batman suggests, looking at us.

“Millay was also bisexual,” I say, “but that is irrelevant.” 

John nods his head, but he adds nothing. No comments about his sexuality. He’s not bothered to address it. In fact, it’s been years since he’s bothered to say a word at other’s innuendos. Instead a small smile plays on John’s lips. I think he finally understands the sting his words had on me, or is it possible that he cares for me on a deeper level? A rush of hope takes hold of me once again. 

“I don’t see the connection,” John says, looking to me for answers as well. “What does this poem have to do with a superhero?” John frowns. “Unless it’s a reference to you.”

Instead I am the one to deny as my hands fly up in dismissal. “I’m no superhero …” I also believe his attire has nothing to do with the note. He was dressed for his niece's costume party, but I keep that to myself.

John gives me one of his long looks. I hear the words written on his face before John says them: “Don’t say it! I’ve heard you say it before: ‘I’m not a hero; I’m a high functioning sociopath.’ I didn’t believe it then and I don’t now.”

“Heroes don’t shoot villains in the head,” I remind him.

“They do in my world,” John smiles and nods to Rosie struggling in his arms. “And Rosie and I know you’re no sociopath.” As if she understands his words, she reaches out to me. “See? And look at how you care for her and protect her. She’s proof of how you care.”

I feel tears threatening to leak out. 

“There’s a reason it’s folded into the shape of a heart,” John says.

I glance back down at the note in my hand. Of course! I see it. John, illuminates what’s hidden once again. 

I had wondered before. It is now confirmed. The folds. I read it again. A sudden panic washes over me. I recall how Mycroft and I desperately worked to understand the song lyrics to find Red Beard’s location. That was the cryptic riddle before, now it is a poem. 

“I need to call Mycroft immediately.”

“What? You never want to call … what’s wrong?”

“This is from my sister.”

————————--

“I assure you, she’s safely secured and catatonic.” 

Mycroft’s brows knit together into one his infamous scowls. Despite his projected haughty indifference, I know he is as perplexed as I am. He scans the flat for Rosie before walking over to John’s chair. “She’s taking a nap?” he asks, the facade completely gone. The disappointment in his voice is evident even to John. It seems Mycroft’s cold heart had been thoroughly melted by bright-blue eyes and a cherub smile.

“She was a wildcat this morning after all the excitement. We just got her settled.” John waves for Mycroft to sit down. It was one of Mycroft’s ways in which to assert himself, but John was magnanimous when it came to my brother, far more than I would ever be when it came to sitting in my chair. 

Mycroft stations his umbrella like a guard and stands straight at attention against the arm of the chair. With a sniff, Mycroft moves the replacement Union Jack pillow aside. John and I sit down together on the couch. We’re so close that our thighs touch. 

I place the note open on the coffee table and slide it in Mycoft’s direction. He merely glances at it. I had already sent him pictures on my mobile along with a few images of Batman, who’s sitting at our kitchen table.

“Just pretend I’m not here!” he calls from the table.

“I suppose you are whatever Gotham wants you to be,” is Mycroft’s only acknowledgement. He looks at me. “She is secured.”

John shakes his head and speaks to Mycroft. “Eurus fooled you once before, why not again?”

As usual, Mycroft chooses not to address the crux of John’s point along with the man in the batsuit. Instead he looks pointedly at John. “I assure you,” he says, “our sister’s condition is not an act. She could not have possibly written the note recently.”

I smile sadly at John’s pointed jab at Mycroft. I have been to see her on many occasions, before she withdrew from the world, and after. I agree with my brother on both counts.

Months after she had torn our lives apart, I thought it was possible that I would have my sister back. For weeks we interacted. Our parents visited; I played violin duets with her. I read to her and she to me. We talked. I began to remember so much of what I’d lost. Memories were beginning to return. I had thought deleting unnecessary information was a skill, but it came from a dark place. It seems erasing blocks of my life had begun long ago as a way to protect my mind from the horror of what my own sister had done to me and those I loved. 

During those weeks, my sister opened up to me. The time I spent with my sister, I remained hopeful. I was also very careful. I went to her to help myself heal but also to help her. I thought I had reached her. I know she had helped me understand a part of my past that I never knew existed. Even with all she destroyed, there was a part of her that longed to be loved. I felt it as we played the violin together, and I read to her stories from our childhood and poetry. Yes, one of the poems was this one by Millay. She’d asked me to read it to her. I’d also read _Treasure Island_ and _A Tale of Two Cities_ at her request. 

One day she’d asked me to bring in something simple, with pictures. I went to the corner bookstore. “Here. I bought two comic books and a mango,” I had said, and she’d laughed and told me it’s Manga. 

Then she quit speaking. I’ve hypothesized the causes, microscopically examined each moment before she shut herself off from the world. I’ve dissected each movement, each syllable from her lips. No matter what the stimulus, she no longer answered or acknowledged anyone or anything. I was invisible. Seeing her hollow left me hollow on every visit. 

Our last conversation was about why I enjoy dancing, her last question, “Would you teach me?” Her last word, “Goodbye.” Since, she has not spoken. 

As unresponsive as she was, I attempted to teach her to waltz, thinking I could reach her, but she stood immovable. Her arms limply hanging from her sides, her feet refusing to take one step, she stared through me as if I was not there.

I understand why she withdrew. I have done it myself—in an effort to think or escape. Brain scans reveal that her mind is active, but greatly altered from its previous state. Weeks before during my time with her, parts of her brain came alive. The orbital cortex, where ethical behavior, impulse control, and moral decision-making reside, started to light up. Now, it was asleep along with most of her mind. Mycroft and her doctors suggested that these new feelings may have been why. Feeling proved too much. She could not reject or overlook it. Cognitive dissonance could never happen in her mind. If she was able to feel pain, pleasure, or love, her past actions became a tsunami she could no longer ignore. 

Over the years, her mind has been mapped, her behavior scrutinized, and her intelligence exploited. Yet they still do not understand her. 

How did she do it? How could someone so easily manipulate those around them? I think it is not that difficult. It was not brainwashing. I can influence others’ actions, but her control borders on mythical. Hers is far more than a conditioned response, she could reach inside another and alter their perception. I wonder sometimes how much she’d altered mine. 

“She is dangerous.” John says, and points to the note. “Always.”

I am torn between a feeling of dread that she is behind this and a relief that she is no longer a vacant shell. If this is my sister’s doing, she is either back and scheming or this note is the remnants of the ruin she set in motion. 

“I have already ascertained from the ink that it was written less than two years ago,” I say, “but not within the last three months. The fingerprints on the envelope are my sister’s along with mine and our caped crusader’s. There are two other prints.” 

At least two other people held it. I’ve ruled out Mycroft: Eurus knew he would never want to touch my heart, literally or figuratively. Moriarty? Not his fingerprints, and besides he vowed to burn it out of me, not fold it up. Mary? She knew I had a heart. She aimed at it. As for Mary’s knowledge of Eurus? She must have known about Eurus. Her prints would be easy for me to check, yet I have not. I do not need to do it to know the truth.

I keep all this to myself. For now. 

“If it is someone who Eurus manipulated before, she planned for it to be set into motion only now,” John says. “You know, possibly a trigger or some event set this in motion.”

“We thoroughly investigated any party who came in contact with her,” Mycroft answers. “All tapes were sifted through meticulously, second by second. No person was thought untouched by her; even those who never directly spoke to her were suspect. My people investigated and deprogrammed any person who was touched by Eurus or by proxy. We were meticulous.” 

“You as well as anyone know that it’s never foolproof, never infallible,” I say.

“I cannot say that it is impossible, but it is not probable. And remember, dear brother, she has been catatonic.”

There have been days when I believed that her catatonic state was of Mycroft’s making. With emotions, she became unpredictable. In the state she’s in, she can do no harm.

A part of me hopes I’m wrong, that my brother would not do this to my sister. Another part of me understands why he would. John is correct. She is dangerous. She knows that she’s done harm, but does she understand? Is that why she would retreat into herself? We assume she had no guilt, no sense of right or wrong. But that may have changed. Or maybe we were being fooled yet again. 

“The message is from my sister,” I say, “but she didn’t send Batman.”

“Message?” John asks. “You mean the note.”

“Yes, John. I knew when you said there was a reason for it to be folded into the shape of a heart. It’s not numbers or logic. It’s the words on the creases, the folds. What’s in between.”

The note remains on the coffee table. All three of us stare at it there—even Markham tries to scramble out the chair to see. I don’t need to pick it up. I recite the words aloud with no inflection or hesitation: _“_ **_I looked heart went I see not a question more the flight heart dying without air lock your swans come again crying_ ** _.”_

John scowls at me. Mycroft raises an eyebrow. 

Markham inches his chair toward us. “Words in between? What does that even mean?” he asks. 

It seems to me that there were many ways to phrase this. I read the one which I believed held the message. _“_ **_I looked. Heart went. I see not a question more. The flight. Heart dying without air. Lock your swans. Come again, crying._ ** _”_

Eurus knew my heart was folded and taken from me.

John is still a bundle of confusion over the note while Mycroft sits smugly in his chair. 

It’s the story of us. How can he not understand it? Mary must have known when she read it, when my sister handed it to her. 

After Mycroft leaves with our guest, I go online and delve into Abraham Markham’s history, and I find where he is employed. 

———--

“Who did send Batman?” John asks me. We’re at Regent’s Park. I suggested we take a second walk today. This afternoon it’s the swings.

He’s pushing her in the high-backed bucket swing. It hugs her safe and secure. As usual she’s singing out, “High!”

Mary and Eurus. I have not completely worked out the link. I am unsure how John will react to what I know. I must be certain before I speak.

“It has to be someone who knows Eurus,” John muses. “Someone who wants to mess with your head. You sure it’s not something to do with Moriarty or Moran?”

I can tell him this. “No,” I say. “They are both very dead. I can assure you of that.” It’s hard to forget either of those deaths: one I am indirectly responsible for, and the other directly.

I’ve done this during our entire relationship, kept information from him. I still hold back deductions until the very last. At first it was because I loved seeing how astonished and impressed he was when I was correct. Then it was because I didn’t want to think I could ever be wrong. I could call that a Holmes family trait. Others would rightly label it a flaw. It’s a sad fact that as a Holmes we can never let others believe we are uncertain or wrong. Why must we always be certain? I am pleased with myself that I’ve been able to let that part of me go. There have been moments I let John know we were what John calls “winging it.” I do that often now, but I can not when it comes to anything that involves Mary. 

I keep my opinions and thoughts regarding her to myself. I continue to tell myself it is because I am protecting him. I know I’ve made horrendous misjudgments trying to protect him. I took the fall, and my death nearly destroyed him. I deeply regret that decision not to tell him. I will never regret all that I did to stop Moriarty other than I did not tell John. After I met Mary, I protected him from my observations. I knew she wasn’t what she appeared to be. Only after she shot me did I reveal to him, but that was necessary. Even then, John did not know the extent of her deceptions. It would have hurt him too deeply. 

It seems I am still protecting him from the truth. Now, my motives are simple: protect and do no harm. To do this I must have all of the facts. I need to be able to tell John the truth in full. There is a risk this will push him away. Although that is reason enough for me to not want to reveal all, I along with others have made too many decisions for John. I cannot add to these past omissions no matter how much I want to protect him.

John continues to push Rosie on the bucket swing. Maybe I have been wrong to keep everything to myself. I can’t let this become another problem between us.

“Norbury,” I say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Edna St Vincent Millay. There are so many reasons I adore you. Your creative genius as a poet and playwright inspired me when I was young. I still cry when I read "The Ballad of the Harp Weaver" aloud to my classes. Your social conscience is conveyed in that poem and so many of your other works. You were a strong feminist activist and openly bisexual. You were a woman who proudly stood your ground. Your sonnets remain some of the very best of any modern poets. That is why I chose this poem. For you, Edna.  
> 
> 
> One the note itself. [Click here to learn how to fold a heart-shaped note on You Tube.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z4AKm2aVzlY) I tried it and my heart turned out pretty well.


	3. Need to Feed

While John gives Rosie a half-hearted push on the swing, I shove my hand deep into my coat pocket and fumble with my mobile. I’ve been waiting for Mycroft’s call. I need to know. This has nothing to do with controlling all the outcomes or being cavalier in solving who it was. It has nothing to do with knowing all the variables. It has everything to do with who.

“Norbury? That’s what I’m supposed to say to you when ...” John stops pushing Rosie on the bucket swing. 

“Not in this case,” I say. In fact, it is quite the opposite. 

Without John’s brisk pushes, the smile on Rosie’s face mimics the swing’s arc—it grows smaller and smaller. John’s lips follow and flat-lined, and his face fills with confusion. I need to clarify immediately before more intrusive and ominous thoughts begin to eat away at him. 

“What I mean is, I think it’s Norbury behind this,” I blurt out. It’s only a part of it. 

“You’re kidding.” John stops pushing the swing again altogether. 

“No, I am not.” I step closer to John. “Not just Vivian, but … her son.”

I know I’m holding out the other name. The one that will hurt John more, the one that might be the final wedge between us.

“Norbury by proxy.” John shakes his head.

“Push me, daddy! Higher!” Rosie says.

“Swing your legs,” John says. He gives her back one gentle push, but it’s not enough for Rosie who begins kicking her legs, pushing against the front of the bucket swing, and jerking the chain back and forth.

“How do you know this? Vivian is spiteful and angry, but how could she convince her son to go after you?” John arms hung against his side, but his chin was up. He isn’t looking at me at all. Instead, he’s staring forward. “Come on, Rosie,” he says, pulling her out of the swing. “Let’s go walk in the garden.”

“Feed the duckies?” She nods. She’s agreeable. 

But John is still not meeting my eyes. “She betrayed Queen and Country. She killed Mary. You’d think that would be enough.” 

I hear the pain in his voice, but I keep this last piece from him. I told him never again, but I must be sure.

“I spoke to Mycroft. She never came in physical contact with my sister, but Vivian knew who she was, and her son works for the British Embassy.”

“You said ‘you think.’ You never just think something, you know it.”

“I am almost certain. What you call my best guess.”

John sighs. It takes a few long seconds before he finally looks into my eyes. “I’ll take your best guess over anyone else’s being certain.”

“Thank you, John.” It’s me who lowers my eyes now. “I am not the same person I was. I …”

And swans, I think. My eyes lift to reach for John’s blue depths. They meet. He’s swallowing rapidly. 

John stops. I stop. But Rosie fills the gap. “I want duckies.”

“Ah, I’ve told you before, we can’t take them home,” says John, but she’s pointing at the swans. 

“Especially not those duckies,” I say. “They won’t fit in the tub.”

Normally, John would laugh. Instead, John sighs and turns to me. “We need a bite.”

The need to eat is literal and metaphorical for John. He needs sustenance; John must feed his transport along with his mind like any BAMF. If he doesn’t, he pays. Hence literally he needs to go home and eat dinner, but he’s also turning toward his metaphoric nourishment: home and blog. 

It’s also the literal John who protects. When we come to the door of 221B and it’s ajar, John’s jaw clenches and eyes narrow. The juxtaposition of the father John, scooping mashed potatoes on the cottage pie for dinner, to the BAMF John, standing with fists ready, is startling. It never fails to intrigue and arouse me.

I want to kiss him so badly at times like these. It’s hard to push down the urge.

“Watch Rosie.” His jaw is rigid, and his fists clenched as he bounds up the stairs without so much as an answer from me. 

“Watch me Papa,” she says and makes one of her silly faces and sticks out her tongue.

I text Mycroft. 

_Someone is in our flat. SH_

_I know, brother dear._

I roll my eyes and I squeeze Rosie’s hand when John begins yelling. It’s followed by a loud bang. A few moments pass before we hear his footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Batman returns!” John laughs. “All clear. I’ve got him tied in your room all neat and tidy where I found him. What did your brother do? Drive a few blocks and let him out on the streets?”

I really didn’t think he was that much of a threat, but I do like the idea of John and ropes.

_Why did you release Abraham Markham? SH_

_It was necessary._

Cryptic as usual. “I’m sure it was,” I say aloud to myself. I have a hollow feeling inside that Mycroft already knows, already knew. 

“I thought while you were interrogating our guest that I would make a fry up,” John says. “Would you like that, Rosie?”

“Mmm,” she says. “I want ta-toes.”

Like father, like daughter. 

I let Rosie entertain herself following her dad around the kitchen with Teddy in hand while I see to the caped invader.

Mr. Markham is sitting on the floor with his back to the wall with his hands tied behind him. I spend a few seconds picturing how John had just manhandled him and tied him up like a Christmas turkey. 

“I can explain,” he says. “Only untie me.”

“Explain first why it was imperative that you came back.”

“I needed to talk to you. In private.”

He didn’t want John near. Why?

I sigh and decide to begin with simple confirmations. “I believe I can save time and tell you what you planned to say to me.” I look down at him. I also hear John just outside the door. He’s not hiding the fact that he’s listening in. 

“Um, alright …” He rubs his back against the wall. “You still haven’t untied me.”

“No, and I am not going to. Yet.” I begin. “You want my help out of this mess you are in. My brother is not someone you want questioning you. You have little to worry about from me. He brought you back because he knew you were harmless, but he said you hold information needed to end this expediently, and I don’t mean the note. He knew I would get said information more readily than he would.”

“You’re sayin’ that he was going to torture me?”

John barks out a laugh on the other side of the door. “Maybe,” John says, stepping inside. “But you’re safe here, unless talking you to death counts.”

“Not funny,” I say, crossing my arms. “You may as well come all the way inside.”

John strides in next to me and rolls his eyes. 

“I wanted this to be in private,” blurts out our captive. His nose twitches nervously.

“Anything you say to me, you can say to John.” 

A small smile plays on John’s lips. “You were about to begin your deduction. I’d like to hear it, and I bet Batman would, too.”

I nod and begin. “While you were abducted from a costume birthday party, you did indeed know those who abducted you. In fact, it was the same men who have been blackmailing you over the last six months.” 

Our captive’s mouth opens and shuts. He looks more like a fish out of water gasping for breath than a bat. Or a kitty. I continue.

“You were siphoning money from a suspicious account that the foreign service specialist whom you work for at the British Embassy had hidden—expenditures that one does not want to disclose publicly.” I begin to pace back and forth between John and Mr. Markham. “You took it at face value. You thought it was what it seemed, a slush account. But it was not. The money in question, unbeknownst to you, was part of a black budget tied to hired assassins. These funds were tied to secret code names, hidden figures, no doubt covert plans. You are in deep. You came back because you realized your missed opportunity to ask for my help earlier. In that respect, you were wise to return.”

I stop in front of Markham and focus on his face, which has gone from bright-red to a sickly white. 

“These men wanted in on your lucrative endeavor, or so they told you. However, it isn’t as simple as that.”

Markham’s eyes open wide. John is grinning at my deductions. His eyes sparkle in approval, which makes me propel myself around more and wave my arms dramatically. 

“What you do not know is this: the person behind those men is actually your boss, Carolyn Norbury. She used you, because she could manipulate you, because she knew you would do exactly what you did. She set you up to move the money from one account to another. Launder it. And return it to her.”

“How do you even know this?” Markham whispers.

I close my eyes. I don’t tell him the link. I don’t need to confirm what I know now to be true. I know the answer, and it’s an answer I don’t want John to hear. Not yet. Not until I understand why. I need to distract them both. I take my deductions in another direction. Since I do, however, know why he’s dressed the way he is.

“The Batman outfit has nothing to do with me or your niece's birthday. True, you wore it there for the costume party, but you’ve had it for some time. The costume is not rented. It belongs to you, and you secretly put it on during, shall I say, intimate situations with your partner. That is why you were snatched from the party. It was a way for Norbury to degrade you and put in your place.”

Markham’s face turns bright red. “Well, that was embarrassing,” he says.

“I will release you, but you must reveal the accounts where the money is hidden,” I say. “The unsavory group you’ve found yourself aligned with most likely would have found you and silenced you no matter what the outcome. You are most fortunate in that regard. As we speak, the men who abducted you have been secured.”

“How do I know if you really have them?” he asks. 

“If Sherlock says his brother has them, he has them.”

As I untie him, I take time to admire John’s remarkable skills. I really shouldn’t be thinking of all the possibilities at a time like this.

“Who _is_ your brother?” Markham asks.

“I’ve often wondered about that very question myself,” I say.

—————————

That night I lay awake in my bed. I know what I have to say to John. There is so much I haven’t said. But with this new discovery, I feel as if it will be what drives John away. I try to put that out of my mind until I have the link. Instead, I think about the characteristics on the blog and my John the BAMF. John has a need for sustenance, for information. He loves it when I deduce, but I love his reaction to me more.

I think of his knots and how I’d like him to use those skills on me. Have me helpless and tied to this very bed with him hard above and me beneath him, aching for him to make love to me. I have imagined many scenarios between us over the years. I imagine what his kiss might taste like, tea, honey, and that raspberry jam he loves. I imagine that same raspberry jam smeared over my cock and John’s flat tongue wickedly licking it clean. I can feel the vibrations through me with each moan he makes after each lingering flick of his tongue. I shouldn’t think like this, I shouldn’t. But I take my cock in hand and slowly savor it all. 

I don’t sleep at all.

It’s time to confirm what I already know to be true. I go downstairs where we’ve stored Mary’s things. I rummage through one of the boxes and find a brush Mary used at the bottom. 

The prints match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Swans and why I love them.
> 
> Growing up, we lived near a lake surrounded by two ponds and a canal. Ducks lived all around, but the swans that lived near and raised their families became a deep interest to myself and my mom, especially after one day we went out to find the two dead along with one of the babies (they had five, so there were four left alone). We were beside ourselves trying to decide what to do, worried about the rest of the young ones. We didn't need to be. Almost immediately, they were adopted by two swans that just appeared: two male swans. How did they know? We're not sure. But they cared for them, loved and raised the young over the next months in our back pond. They even swam around with the babies on their backs. It was an amazing lesson for myself and my family. We never found out who killed the swans, but no one ever harmed any again.


	4. Inhale Patience, Exhale Irritation

The sun comes up. I know the windows need cleaning. I can see streaks and shadows the light casts as it filters through. I caught Mrs. Hudson on her tip-toes standing up on one of her wooden kitchen chairs, washing them last Tuesday. I made her climb down and scolded her. 

“They won’t wash themselves,” she told me.

When I replied I’d clean them, she rolled her eyes and climbed off the chair, immediately foisting the window cleaner and a chamois into my hands. After, she crossed her arms and tapped her toe, expecting me to begin. 

_“Later_ ,” I said. “I promise.” I realize I still hadn’t. If she returns without them washed, there will be hell to pay.

I really do need to clean them or no home-baked biscuits for me!

Yesterday evening, I revised my mental to-do list for today and “wash the windows” has been added. 

So I have windows to do along with our daily walk to Regent’s Park. I’ll feed the ducks with Rosie and John, pick up groceries along with speaking to Mycroft and finally, check on a possible new case with Lestrade that looks to be more than a five. 

While washing windows and speaking to Mycroft would usually be moved to the next day’s list, I must attend to them. John keeps insisting that we need to help Mrs. Hudson more often, and no sense putting it off further. As for Mycroft, I’m sure he won’t give me a direct answer. Although he never bothers with the “caring is not an advantage” anymore. He’s long since proved he doesn’t follow his own credo. Mycroft cares too much about my well-being and especially Rosie’s. At times he even appears to care for John.

I hear John and Rosie come down the stairs and go into the bathroom. Rosie chatters and John yawns. 

He’s the most patient yet most caustic man I’ve ever known. Number four on the BAMF blog fits John perfectly: “Inhale patience, but exhale irritation.” On our last case, he sat on a bench in the cold London rain for hours while I sat with Rosie at home. Our suspect was a comical figure of a man who was last seen sporting a green cap, an enormous walrus mustache, and feet wading in Wellingtons four sizes too big. That whole time, John didn’t eat, had only one coffee, and still he remained stoic at the stake out. 

When the man appeared, John followed with caution. Despite the suspect’s odd appearance, John judged him a dangerous man. John’s uncanny skill at detecting threats while remaining undetected is unmatched. Camouflage is John’s mien. His oatmeal sweaters and checkered shirts make him invisible to most. He seems a common man, but hidden beneath those clothes resides the sage healer, the compassionate captain, and the unrelenting warrior. 

On this particular stakeout, John tracked our suspect to the door of the woman who was the suspect’s alibi for the night of murder. She’d told John and I she’d only just met the suspect. I, of course, knew better from the way she nervously flicked her eyes. I told John as much, but he, however, had believed her story. I admit she gave an outstanding performance about how their chance meeting at Tesco led to him walking her home because “he was a true gentleman.” I suppose she was attractive if one liked a slim, toned body in a short skirt. John wants to believe in someone’s innocence. That’s what is so amazing about him: he sees everyone without guilt, while I see guilt in almost every place I look. 

But, for John, it was seeing our suspect pull out a key and opening her front door that rankled John to his core. He knew then that he was wrong about her. 

John told me he followed the man into the house since the suspect had carelessly left the door unlocked. John stepped in and stopped the suspect from completing murder number two. 

I remember how I sensed John’s irritation when he’d texted me. 

_You were right. She did know him. Well. Called Lestrade. He’s on his way. Suspect no longer suspect. He did it._

When he returned that night, he didn’t tell me what happened directly. Instead he patiently waited for Rosie to pick up every wooden block off the floor in her desired order—not A, B, C or red or green or blue blocks first. In the Rosie order, which before bedtime is as slowly as possible. 

But John waited as she slotted them away in the box one at a time. Then he picked her off the floor and carried her to bed. As usual, she refused to fall asleep unless I read her a story. At last I came downstairs to hear John’s own story.

“And she’d seemed so innocent,” John had said to me later. 

“Why, because she smiled nicely and batted her eyes?” I said, which made John angry.

“That is not why.”

I feel a twinge inside of my chest. “Maybe because she was fit. She spends a lot of time on it. Do you know her workout routine requires five types of squats each morning?”

He was even more annoyed with me after I said that. It may be why he didn’t tell me she hugged him or gave him her number. 

I was jealous. I know he didn’t call her, but I still felt hurt that he took the note.

“So that was how it went,” he’d said between sips of tea. “I caught our suspect with his hands around his alibi’s throat.”

Even now it’s easy to close my eyes and see how John did it. It’s easy to imagine him. I’ve seen John take control so many times. John stealthily moves from behind, and before the suspect knows what’s happening, John has the man’s arm wrenched behind his back, and the suspect is flat on the floor. Then he snaps on the handcuffs he’s not supposed to have. My heart races everytime he does it. I’m sorry I had missed it. 

“What a git,” John had said. “Not very smart.” 

“No, they never are.”

Only a few are. Like Moriarty. 

John waited for me to come back alive, and when I did, he was angry about it. 

John’s already made coffee. I get out of bed and pad out of my room. Rosie is eating breakfast and kicking the booster seat 

I drink a cup of coffee, then take a shower, shave, get ready for the day. It’s a routine I’ve grown to love. I never thought this kind of domesticity would suit me. I never thought I would embrace such a thing. Now it’s a part of me, and I don’t want to lose it.

I dress and come out of my room. No need to put it off. I take out the cleaning supplies that Mrs. Hudson had set aside for me. 

As soon as I start the task of washing the windows, John helps. It’s most distracting. His biceps and triceps flex. He’s toned in ways that make me ache to see what’s beneath the stretch of the thin blue T-shirt he’s wearing. And the way his arse wiggles in his jeans when he’s reaching up high makes me face the opposite direction so that John doesn’t notice I’ve taken a particular interest in his work.

He’s washing one of the large double windows in the living room, and I’m washing the other while Rosie plays with a toy truck on the Agra rug, using the large geometric patterns in it for roads.

John is climbing on and off the chair again. Stepping up. My god in heaven. I give myself away by gaping at him.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?”

I nod. John looks over at me suspiciously. My face warms as I realize I have been caught. I hastily spritz the glass with more cleaner, carelessly getting some in my eye. 

“I’m glad when you had the repairs done on the flat you and Mrs. Hudson decided on using these refurbished windows. Are you sure you’re okay?” John asks.

I wipe my eye and blink at him. It’s burning. “I’m fine.”

“Alright … if you say you are,” John smirks and looks back to the job at hand. “The window is even repurposed. Isn’t that what they call it now? You can tell it’s old from the bubbles in the glass and it sort of bends. But I’m sure you know all that, being that you help pick it all out. Just that it’s something that keeps the place a lot like it was before.”

Since I’ve been caught, I throw caution to the wind and take a chance. 

“I was thinking, John. What if we decided to change a few things.” I glance over at him. 

“What do you mean?” John stops mid-wipe with his towel on the glass. 

“Mrs. Hudson suggested that we should take advantage of the Freemans moving out of 221C and use the space for a bedroom and extra bath and maybe a sitting room.”

I am watching the people on the street below, going to and from wherever regular people go in the afternoon. One woman wears a red hat and pushes a pram on her way home where she lives with her parents. Another is walking a terrier and carrying a bag of groceries in the other arm. He has no one waiting for him at home. I realize I’ve been holding my breath waiting for John to respond. Except for the wheels of Rosie’s red truck spinning across the rug, the room is quiet.

John doesn’t give me an answer. We finish with all the windows in our flat and Mrs. Hudson’s, too. First the windows and on to our morning walk in the park. 

He waits for me. Rosie waits for me. They’re both standing near the door. I hear them go down the stairs. They’ll wait. Rosie waits, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it.

I pocket the two pieces of dry toast we didn’t eat from breakfast. I know we shouldn’t feed the ducks, but Rosie loves it.

While they’re waiting at the bottom of the stairs, I pull out my mobile and call Mycroft. He owes me this for keeping information from me. Most of all he owes John.

“I need to speak to Vivian Norbury. Arrange it,” I say.

“There is nothing she can say to you that I can not.”

“I know that, but I want to hear it directly from her.”

—————--

We feed the ducks and swans. John and I sit next to each other on a bench and watch Rosie toss in the crumbs of bread. John says that the bright blue skies with wispy cirrus clouds seem to watch from above. When I was a child, like many children I would see animals in the shapes of them. Now I only note them to ascertain if I can predict rain.

“She's growing so fast,” John says. 

She is. Too fast. He shifts next me, settles in closer. He rests his hand between us, brushing my leg. My heart misses a beat and my breath catches. I briefly close my eyes to see the paper heart appear. The note. I open my eyes to see John looking at me quizzically. 

The lines in the creases come back to me: **_I looked. Heart went. I see not a question more. The flight. Heart dying without air. Lock your swans. Come again, crying._ **

I think we should talk more about this. My eyes are drawn to the two swans that Rosie is feeding. John notices.

“Didn’t Markham say something about swans being homosexual?” John asks.

“It’s more of a same-sex union between them. See the two males swans swimming side by side? They’ve bonded for life. Adopted abandoned eggs. Raise those children together.”

At first I think I’ve said too much. John blinks. Then a light appears in his eyes.

I’ve gone over the note again and again. I’ve never been one to rely on instinct. It’s always deductive logic, but I admit there are times I let myself simply react. Like now. I take John’s hand. He doesn’t pull away. 

The words on the creases of the folded heart. I immediately knew the message. Eurus is writing about John and me. My mind recalls sandcastles on the beach and hide and seek with the sister I loved. I still love her. But she never loved me because she never understood it.

But Eurus wanted to know, to understand. She wanted to know about love.

Apparently, she understood my longing, my wishes, my desires. But she doesn’t understand depth. She doesn’t understand why. She can’t comprehend all I did not have but wanted. Maybe this is in some twisted way to give to me what she could not?

**_I looked._ **

From the moment I met him, I couldn’t stop looking. His psychosomatic limp, his pursed lips, the sparkle in his blue eyes. I wanted him before I knew I wanted him. 

_God, he is still holding my hand._

**_Heart went._ **

His thumb is brushing against my knuckle. _My heart._ It went to him. 

From the moment I met him, the pull was undeniable. I didn’t want to lose it. I fought it, but just like I couldn’t stop looking, I couldn’t keep my heart from falling for him. Once I fell, I couldn’t put those feelings back. 

**_I see not a question more._ **

But I always seek to question more. Words, words, words. It’s all in the phrasing.

Although when it came to my heart, I never spoke it. The notes in music are only a part. How it’s played by the musician changes with the tone, the tempo. Eurus knows this as well as I, but she only knew it in a technical sense. The emotion, the passion was not there until those last days. Now I must play the music the way Eurus thinks I would play—with emotion and passion. 

I want more than holding hands, although it’s a beginning. I hold on for something more and will not let go until John does. He is the one word, the one person whose commands I obey.

Sometimes words fail me, fail us both. I need him to speak. He holds my hand tighter as Rosie turns and smiles at us.

**_The flight. Heart dying without air._ **

The fall. The plane. My words to John that I couldn’t say. 

Rosie holds out her hands. Only fine crumbs remain in her upturned palms. John releases my hand. 

“All gone, Papa,” she says to me. “We need more.”

 **_Lock your swans._ **

She jumps into John’s arms. He kisses her head, and I still hang on to how his hand felt in mine. The tingle where we touched lingers as a reminder, and it makes me feel so alone.

The reference to the swans is curious. Irene’s password? My name? A warning of what may come? Eurus knew so much about me. Secluded away, her time spent living vicariously watching what happened outside while kept in isolation. That’s not living. Did she deserve that fate? She was dangerous. She’d killed, burned Musgrave, our family home, with no remorse. 

**_Come again, crying._ **

I wonder what my sister’s purpose was for the note. Is it advice? A warning? Or is this about my fall? I never questioned my choice to keep it from John, because I didn’t see. How could she see it, and he could not? 

We stand, and he lets go. I feel awkward as I walk next to him. I want to know what he feels. I want to touch him again.

I know there is nothing that will ever alter the past or my past actions. I can never undo those years that John believed I was dead, nor my arrogant barbs that drove Vivian Norbury to shoot at me. Whatever message Eurus has sent in my paper heart, it has to do with that day at the aquarium, and the only way to find the solution is to speak to the source. The outcome would illuminate her purpose as either benevolent or malevolent.

I learned months ago that I will never get answers from Eurus directly and no one ever will. 

My mobile rings. It’s Mycroft. “Yes,” I say.

John flashes me an odd look.

“The arrangement has been made. This is not a wise choice.”

“I don’t need your advice.”

“You should expect a car.” Pause. “You have not told John.”

“I will. After.” I don’t thank him. He’s part of the reason why. I stuff the mobile back in my coat pocket.

“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” John asks.

“I will.”

“You bloody well better tell me now. I won’t have you keeping secrets again.”

We're walking along Park Road, at the halfway mark to home. This time it’s John who grabs my hand. “Well?” he says, looking at me expectantly.

The black sedan pulls alongside.

John takes one look at the car and shakes his head. “No. Just, no!” he lowers his voice. 

“I promise, John, I will tell you what happens.”

“There’s your ride.” His voice drips with sarcasm, then he looks at Rosie, who has a finger in her mouth and is frowning. I can see John’s mind rethinking things. “We can get Molly to watch Rosie. She’s off today.”

He lets go of my hand as I open the car door. “I must do this alone.” 

I see something else in his face. Not just anger. Concern, worry. “It is perfectly safe.” I assure him. “I will see you at home.”

“At home,” John repeats. 

_At home._ I usually hate it when people repeat what I’ve said, but those two words from John’s lips, I would listen to over and over. I hope it’s in some way an answer.

I reach out and give his hand a squeeze. 

I shut the car door and Rosie waves to me. “Bye-bye!”

It’s a little over thirty minute ride to Middlesex to HMP Bronzefield. It’s the largest maximum-security prison for women in the UK and also the only private prison, although private in this particular instance doesn’t equate to high-end. Since Vivian’s escape attempt in January, she’s been housed in the prison within the prison.

During the ride, I go into my mind palace. I make myself review the events of that day at the aquarium. I’ve re-lived this in my memories, in my nightmares, but I’ve never taken it apart like I should have. I know that now. I wanted to forget it. I force myself to rewind it. I take what happened apart frame by frame. The flickering blue, the fire of the gun. My utter shock. As it plays in my mind palace, a voice narrates. For the first time, it’s not Mary’s.

I’m not escorted to the usual visitors’ center. Instead we go to a private interrogation room. Instead of the usual white, we have a pale blue room with padded chairs, laminated table and two CCTV cameras. Vivian is already there. She’s wearing simple beige trousers and a cotton blouse in a floral print. Her hair is styled the same bob cut, but she’s taken less effort to cover the grey. 

“What does the great Sherlock Holmes want from me?” She meets my eyes, her thin lips forming a flat line. 

“An answer to why you killed Mary.”

She laughs and sits up straight. The vinyl on the padded metal chair squeaks as she does. Her hands are clasped on the table in front of her.

“The older brother _is_ smarter. How long did it take you?” The bitterness in her voice fills the room.

“It was a recent revelation,” I say.

“Prompted by an unexpected gift.”

“I had other things on my mind.” I take the seat across from her and brush the imaginary creases from my own trousers. 

“John still blaming you for Mary’s death?”

I sigh and roll my eyes.

“Good.” She leans back and the chair makes that squishy noise again. “You got our note.”

“You mean Eurus’ note.” I pause. “Why did you wait to give it to me?”

“I decided it was time.”

“You decided?”

Over a year later, and Eurus still continues to pull strings.

I remember Vivian’s words to Mary—that she and Mary were alike, that all they both wanted was a family and a little peace. But that’s not all either of them wanted. I wonder if those were her words, or if someone else put them there.

“How many times did you visit with my sister?”

“I told your brother this. I spoke to her twice. The first time she came to see Mary and I. The second, I spoke to her alone. She gave me the note then.”

It seems that Eurus had a way off the island long before we suspected. 

“Mary knew you were behind the murder of all the hostages and the Tblilsi ambassador along with Mary’s A.G.R.A. team,” I say. “If you didn’t kill her, she would have killed you. What did you have that kept Mary at bay all that time? There had to be more than what was on that USB drive.” 

“That was a mere tip of the iceberg. You know she was a vicious assassin. The list was much longer and much more brutal than what was on the drive.” She laughs. “She destroyed people’s lives. Ruined families. She knew it was only a matter of time and people would come after her and return to her what she sowed.”

“That was why she wanted to fake her own death?” I don’t believe it. It’s not all of it.

“For us both! We had the plan. We would go separate ways, far from here.” She stares past me, imagining what it would have been. 

I yawn. “But you decided not to do it.” 

She flicks her eyes back to me and actually snarls. “She was going to double cross me. She planned to kill me. I saw it in her eyes that she would kill me. After all, it was her nature. She was scorpion. It was myself or her, so I made the choice.”

“Yes, you did. The entire death scene was staged, made to look as if you were killing me. She didn’t take the bullet for me. It was intended for her. She jumped into the shot. She thought it wasn’t real, but you wanted her dead. Gone forever. Real bullets.”

“I was impressed how she kept her act up until the end in her husband’s arms,” she says. “Even to you.”

I remember Mary’s words that she liked me, and that she was sorry that she shot me. 

“You, of all people, understand a person cannot jump in front of a bullet,” she says. “I knew exactly who I intended to kill.”

“Or not kill, isn’t that right?”

“I said I made the choice. I knew it would be my only chance to take her out. I’d asked her to let me go.”

“Let you go? In this case, not go through with Mary faking her courageous death scene,” I say. “You speak as if you gave Mary a choice between betraying you and life, and she chose betraying you. That is not what happened.”

“She _did_ have a choice.” 

“Really?”

“She said she was tired of being the wife of Doctor John Watson. If that were true, she would have picked someone obscure, a nobody! But she didn’t. And why not? _Her ego_.”

“Fascinating. Envy is at work here. Not Mary’s, _yours_.” I sit forward in my seat. “You knew who and what Mary was yet you kept quiet about it because once upon a time, you wanted to be Mary. You wanted to be an agent. Pulling that trigger probably excited you. You also wanted to be important, a member of Parliament, not a secretary to a member. You wanted the position and wealth that came with it. You sold out your country for a place in the country. In the end, you said all you wanted was to disappear forever. Mary wanted to disappear forever. You were to pretend to shoot her, and she would pretend to die saving me. She died a martyr. That’s what we believed, what I believed. All the while, she had a new life waiting for her.”

“Why should she get to have it all? She wouldn’t let me walk away, so I made Mary disappear, permanently. If I had more than one bullet, I would have shot you too.”

I’ve found that John’s moral compass has become a part of me. I walk away from Vivian Norbury and go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I go dissecting the Aquarium scene and calling foul. As a fandom, so many have written superior meta on this. So much never made sense, but most of all for me it never made sense to have John do nothing. This chapter (and the next) offer my fix it.


	5. Share the Truth and Be the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues on with my fix it for the aquarium scene and delves into Mary's part in it all.

After dinner, I finish the dishes, and John gives Rosie a bath. I hear singing from the bathroom, and “I’m a Little Teapot” rings out in John’s clear tenor accompanied by Rosie’s splashing. As I walk to the bathroom to capture the moment for my mind palace, I’m distracted by an incoming text message. It’s John’s mobile that persistently vibrates and rattles against the wood of the coffee table. I decide to ignore it, and glad I did. I suppress a laugh when John's arm loops as a handle and his other as the spout while he sings "when I get all steamed up hear me shout, tip me over and pour me out.”

I leap away from the doorway before he can see me. 

I hear the tub draining, and John’s footfalls signal me to put on water for evening tea. As John comes into the kitchen, Rosie hangs from John’s hip, wrapped up snug in a soft-blue bath towel. Although still wet, her blonde curls are already springing to life. She’s chewing on her rubber duckie, then puckers up her lips and leans in for a kiss goodnight from me.

When John comes back down, the tea is made and waiting on the coffee table. I almost make a I’m a Little Teapot joke, but he sits down on the couch and picks up his mobile. Before he takes a sip, he frowns as he reads the text.

“We’re out of milk. I think I’ll pop down to Tesco and pick up a few things. Eggs for breakfast.” He ignores the rest of his tea and walks over and puts on his coat. “Anything else?”

“Potatoes,” I say. 

“I mean, is there anything else you want to tell me?”

I’m not ready to tell him. Not yet. 

John shakes his head as he puts on his jacket. I know John’s sudden urge to go to Tesco was prompted by the text message. Usually I wouldn’t hesitate to ask what the message is, but I can deduce it easily. Besides, he’s already out the door and down the stairs.

Of course Rosie begins to call for me.

“Papa!” she chimes from upstairs behind the baby gate that is now entirely useless. She scales over it and navigates the stairs backward and bottom first at least once daily. I go up to see how she is, and end up reading to her. I keep listening for the door downstairs. John is taking far longer than I had anticipated. I’ve found Rosie’s attention span when reading far exceeds the usual toddler’s I have researched. Rosie is obviously advanced. I am able to read the entirety of _Where the Wild Things Are_ and have her ask for another story, which is always _Goodnight Moon_. She is asleep on the last page. I tuck the blankets under her chin, kiss her forehead, then decide to look over a few cases Lestrade gave me.

The stairs groan, a signal that John is home. He comes in through the kitchen carrying two bags. He sets them on the counter, and a quick look inside each tells me he has forgotten the milk and eggs. I immediately see dirt on his shoes. 

I don’t say a word. Not necessary.

“It was a spontaneous decision,” John explains. John bends down and puts away potatoes in the bottom of the cupboard. 

“Mycroft messaged you.”

“I messaged him first. You aren’t giving me answers.” 

It’s true, but I don’t know what to say to him. 

“Rosie went to bed without a problem?” He takes off his jacket and hangs it up. 

“After getting all steamed up with the teapot, it was a _Wild Things_ evening.” I pull my belt tighter on my robe so that my hands will have something to do. “Well?” I wait twenty seconds. It is long enough. I know who he went to see. “Tell me what Carolyn Norbury had to say.” 

I follow him into the living room. John sits down heavily in his chair. I take a seat on the sofa and lean forward, waiting for John to begin.

“She blames everyone but her mum for what she did. She thinks that it’s some conspiracy, and says her brother Bradford, believes the same. She says her mother never betrayed her country and that she was framed.” 

John rubs his hands across his face. This is the worst possible scenario. John is sad. I know there is more to tell. I regret not being with him when Carolyn Norbury spoke to him. 

“She claims it was an easy way to keep her quiet,” John sighs. “She said Mary’s murder was all part of it. She told me her mom didn’t shoot Mary. Guess who she says did it?”

I blink. “Me.” I hold my breath and wait for John. I force my hands to remain still. 

Vivian was never the simple secretary that she pretended to be. She came up with this theory. It makes perfect sense especially since Vivian knew all about the elaborate lengths Mycroft went to cover up the truth: that I’d shot Magnussen in the head in full view of cameras and police. It had worked. Why not say Mycroft was covering for me once again? It’s not a stretch to believe a clandestine cover-up by British government and Secret Service, especially over a botched rescue of hostages from a terrorist cell. I hope John doesn’t think that there is any truth to what Carolyn Norbury told him … But no, he’s upset ... but not at me.

“It was hard, listening to her talk about Mary. She made it sound as if her mother and my wife were best friends! I told her they didn’t even know each other. You know what she said. That’s not true. She said her mother met with Mary on more than one occasion.”

I grasp my knees and worry them with my fingers. 

“She was genuinely surprised I didn’t believe her,” John says, his back stiff. “She’s completely convinced that her mom is innocent. That's the thing about these conspiracy theories; after a time, some of them begin to sound feasible, no matter how convoluted.”

John may say he believes that I didn’t shoot her, but if Eurus is behind any of this, she may have planted some doubt.

“She really hates you," John says. "She doesn’t think much of me either.”

“And the note?”

“Vivian told her that it was a message. It was to let you know that you weren’t untouchable and that others will know what you are.” John takes a deep breath. “How did Carolyn Norbury get the note?” he asks me. 

_The question_. 

He still wound up and tense. He’s expecting answers. It’s time for me to tell him and let the cards fall where they may.

It’s John as the moral compass, sitting with his legs crossed in his chair. I have to appease him somehow, some way. John isn’t naive. He knows that truth isn’t always so simple. 

I sit forward in my chair and close my eyes.

I hear John take another deep breath to prepare.

“I know why, and there’s no other reason why you should be reluctant to tell me. I know this has to do with Mary, and that’s why you’ve been holding back.” I open my eyes to see John shooting me daggers. ”Vivian Norbury did know Mary, but there’s more isn’t there? A lot more.”

I prepare myself for his possible reaction. He destroyed the USB and told Mary her past was her business, but her future was his privilege. What will John do if I tell him that she planned to leave him?

“So tell me Sherlock, how did she get the note, and what does all of this have to do with Mary?”

I sigh, and John gave me one of his abbreviated nods, indicating for me to speak.

“Mary wasn’t supposed to die.”

“I know Sherlock. You were.”

I shake my head. “Vivian is not innocent. But she wasn’t going to shoot me. She never was, although she hates me enough now to do it.”

“I don’t understand.”

I close my eyes. This is so hard for me to tell him. How do I tell him that Mary planned to fake her death?

“The whole meeting in the aquarium was staged to make sure they had plenty of reliable witnesses. They knew I would be right there … and you would come.”

John is shaking his head. “Why would she … she knew what losing you did to me …” He ducks his chin. 

Mary was clever. She believed she was as clever as me. Cleverer. The ultimate test for her would be to fool me, but to do that she needed help. Eurus. That was Mary’s fatal mistake.

Eurus manipulated us. John had never questioned why he never tried to save Mary as she bled out. Instead, he became crazed with rage. He blamed me. For a long time, I blamed myself. Looking back I’ve accepted my portion, yet there was another hand in it all: m _y sister_ insinuating herself in our lives as lover, friend, and therapist.

 _How long had it gone on? When had it begun? What had she done to me? To test me, to break me? Oh, see how I fall!_ It is not irony that Mary would fake her death as I had. Irony is not planned.

I do know Mary’s reason. She feared for her life. I believe she also feared for John and Rosie’s lives as well. The best way to leave them safe was to leave them forever. This was to be a staged death. Eurus helped. The letter was to be part of it, but it never came about because Vivian made it real. I tell him this.

“Mary didn’t jump in front of me to save me. The shot was meant for her. She meant to fake her death.” 

John’s hands shake as he grips the arms of his chair. 

“Are you telling me she’s alive?”

I shake my head violently. “No, no. I’m sorry, John. I …”

“She’s dead. I saw her body at the morgue. It was her in the casket. _Both of you_ … _both of you faked your death_? What does that say about me?”

“John, don’t think that way.” 

“So is she dead or not?”

Although even now, I wonder if there is the possibility that Eurus fooled us completely. 

“She’s dead,” I say. “Mary thought the gun held blanks.”

The pain in his face is agonizing for me to behold. He rubs his hands over his face.

I want to get up and cross the room. I want to hold him and say none of this happened. But I cannot. It won’t change anything.

“I cannot defend myself, I can only say I am deeply sorry. Mary is not here to defend herself. But in the end, you heard her words.”

“How?” John asks. “How could she even think it would work?” John sways in his chair, and I want to go to him, but stay seated on the couch.

“With Eurus’s help. John, think. Realize. Since the moment we both encountered Eurus, she made us misdirect our attention, our perceptions.”

I remember John the doctor doing nothing to save his wife. I remember doing nothing myself. No one did.

“We saw but we did not observe,” I say. 

Looking back, it was impossible for John not to respond. He was trained on the battlefield to save lives—it’s instinctive, yet he never lifted a finger, not even taking her pulse. I couldn’t say those words to him, but I didn’t have to. It was in his face.

“You’re telling me that Eurus influenced me to help fake my wife’s death? Eurus told me there was nothing for me to do, that there was nothing I could do to save her, and that’s why I did nothing? It wasn’t shock or fear? God!”

It feels like I’ve been struck with a brick. John blamed himself for doing nothing! I can no longer sit by. I kneel in front of John. 

“You are not to blame for any of this,” I say. “Put it out of your mind.”

“But what I said, what I did to you.” 

John gulps for breath as I clutch his legs. 

“Put that out of your mind. I have.” 

I rub my hands up and down his thighs to calm him.

“Carolyn told me Mary gave her mother the gun,” John says. “I still find it hard to believe. If that’s true, Mary would have checked the gun and seen that there were live rounds in it.”

“Vivian said she switched them, but it is also possible that Mary only saw what Eurus wanted her to see. Eurus got to us. She got to you, and she got to Mary. She probably believed they were blanks. It may well be that she tricked Mary into loading the gun with the live rounds herself. Think, John! We can’t believe what we think we saw, not when my sister is involved. Use logic. We ignored so much, and the plan worked until now. Eurus suggested it to you and to me. She had us only believe what she wanted us to see or not see. She made me believe. There was no glass barrier between us. Eurus made me overlook the obvious. We were to believe their plan, her hoax. The irony is that the gun was loaded. What I am uncertain about is if that was Eurus’ plan all along.”

I sit back and stare into John’s eyes. “They’d planned it out—or at least they were led to believe it was their plan.”

“It was perfect,” John whispers. “Having us there. You, the great detective; your brother, the British government. And me. Hard to keep that type of thing from a doctor, although you did it without Eurus.” I flinch as he says this bitterly.

“Mary didn’t have to worry about that since Eurus told us to only see the blood and Mary’s face. All that blood. It’s never like that when someone’s shot, but we ignored that.”

“Except it was real. The bullet was real.”

“Vivian said she removed the blanks and put in live ammunition. She pulled the trigger, thinking it was her idea. It never was.”

“Mary was going to leave me.”

I walk over to John's chair and kneel before him. “I’m not even certain as to why. That may even have been planted by Eurus. We don’t know how much of what’s happened is us. That is why you should never blame yourself for all that happened afterward.”

“I will always blame myself for hurting you,” John whispers.

I take John’s hand. 

“You said before that the note is about us. How?” John asks.

While John seemed highly upset in the beginning, he has become unusually calm. I fear that this is not a good thing. 

“I believe it’s about our … past.”

“Our relationship.” John sits up. “You said it’s about us.”

“Or Eurus’ impression of us,” I correct. 

“Recite them again—the words in the creases.” 

**_“I looked. Heart went. I see not a question more. The flight. Heart dying without air. Lock your swans. Come again, crying._ ** _”_ I take a breath through my nose. 

“Yeah, I can see it. Pretty much from the first day I met you I followed you without a question,” John says. “And the part about the heart dying. Mary’s shot? Or is it deeper? How I hurt you?” John stares ahead, his lips tremble. I crush his hand in mine. “Not a happy ending.”

It’s not a prediction or a warning. It’s Eurus’ observations regarding love—mine specifically. How I’ve kept my true love locked, how it will make me cry again. I understand what she saw. She only understood that I wanted John. She’d seen the lengths I went to save him. Suffer torture, take a shot through the heart. She’d tested the lengths when she put John in a well to drown him like Victor. Eurus didn’t understand love. She observed it in others. She only knew I desperately wanted it. 

And this note to me? She observed my problem: how to give me what I locked away. She is a Holmes. Like myself and Mycroft, she must solve and resolve. _God, what had she done?_

Why couldn’t I say those words? Am I as barren as Eurus? I want to tell John that it’s a woman’s interpretation of love and how it destroys—at least how she believes unrequited love has weakened me. But it isn’t true. Love isn’t a weakness.

“I ...” I am about to tell him that Sherlock was not a girl’s name, that I had meant to tell him then that I loved him. I stop. John’s blue eyes are wide, his breathing becomes rapid gasps. _He’s panicking._

“I want to help pay for the renovations.” John blurts out. He reaches for my hand and grabs it tight. He gives it two squeezes to reassure me. 

I gulp back my own panic and squeeze his hand back with excitement. “I would be amenable, but it is unnecessary. We received a substantial bonus from the Wolfe case that we have never touched will more than cover the costs.”

My mind is giddy with the same thought: _They are staying! They are staying!_ My once broken heart beats strong at his words. _He knows. He must know._

“There was a reason for that, as I recall …” John says.

“I think I’m over Wolfe although being filthy rich still shouldn’t give one carte blanche to wear shark tooth necklaces and black shoes with white socks, nor insult my coat.” 

“He called me shorty!” 

“Or call you shorty.”

My reverie is broken by a bang from the top of the stairs. 

“Drink! Water!” Rosie wails down, shaking the baby gate. 

“I thought we already explained,” John calls up. “No water after bed!”

“Drinky!”

John sighs and looks at me.

“I did read that it’s important children remain hydrated,” I say.

“I just don’t want to hydrate the mattress,” John sighs.

“Maybe we can distract her.” I snag her favorite sock puppet.

John grabs Rosie just before she climbs over the baby gate, and I’m right behind him. As I watch him kiss her cheek, I promise myself I will tell John my heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never call John Watson shorty. :(


	6. To Rescue Rather than Be Rescued (But It’s All Good)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hotshoeagain did an awesome job beta'ing this. Any mistakes are mine since I couldn't leave it alone before publishing.

Last night, we went to our separate rooms, sad but with more than a hint of hope. I was greatly relieved John agreed to return permanently to Baker Street, but much was left unsaid. Last night, I put my heart aside since I felt John was still hesitant. This morning, I wonder if he is waiting for me to tell him.

I am an idiot. Of course he’s waiting for me. 

I am pacing in front of the fireplace, bare feet cautiously avoiding Rosie’s wooden alphabet blocks. I remain uncertain. Should I rush upstairs and tell him? I am about to do it when I get a call from Lestrade for a case. It’s a relief—a chance to return to our normal. Afterward, we can talk.

But my plan falls apart. Our usual sitter isn’t answering her mobile, and Molly is working at Bart’s.

I don’t give the case that much promise anyway. I almost had it solved when talking to Lestrade. I only took the case to get John the BAMF engaged and have the opportunity to speak to him privately, away from 221B, afterward.

“Go,” John says, waving me off. “I’ll keep trying Sandra. If not, I’ll catch up to you as soon as I get … someone.”

I sigh as I put on my coat and scarf. I take a cab to the crime scene. It’s in a large three-story home in the Hampstead Garden suburb not far from the bird sanctuary. Police are fanned out in the front garden, taping it off to keep reporters from poking in. I duck through and go inside. 

Lestrade is talking to a woman, the mother, in the foyer. She’s been sobbing. Her jeans are worn through at the knees, and her auburn hair is tied up in a blue scarf. She has fresh paint under her nails and smells of mineral spirits. Oil not acrylic then. An artist.

“Sorry,” he says as I step up beside him. “It seems that it resolved itself.”

“You should have texted.”

“Just happened. The ransom note was written by the missing girl.”

I walk around Lestrade and up the stairs, and he follows me. 

“I knew that. I told you although you said the mother insisted it was not her daughter’s handwriting.”

“She had said the boyfriend wrote it.”

“She’s lying,” I say over my shoulder. “She knows her daughter’s handwriting, but she knew these are not her words. The boyfriend dictated the note to her.”

“You’re saying that the boyfriend has her daughter?”

I step into the bedroom. The father’s body is face down. “No, this is not an abduction.” 

“Yes, she admitted it. But how did you …”

I carefully kneel and inspect the body. The mother comes to the doorway and covers her mouth in a sob. Lestrade tries to remove her, but she refuses to leave.

“Why?” she cries. I always miss John when he’s not at a crime scene, but I miss his soothing voice and patient hand right now. 

“You know why,” I say. “They thought they needed the money to run away. Your husband disapproved of your daughter's boyfriend, forbidding her to see him. They planned to just leave the fake ransom note, but your husband found it on the table in the foyer when he came home from work early. He heard a crash from upstairs, dropped his keys, and rushed to your daughter’s bedroom. Your daughter and boyfriend had already ripped through the room, throwing the bedspread and sheets off the bed, brushing objects off tables, breaking the mirror and lamp in an attempt to make it look as if there was a struggle. Poor attempt, obviously staged. The broken lamp was thrown against the wall.”

I stand up and turn back to Lestrade. “The father’s knife wounds are not defensive. He was slashed after he was already unconscious. Also, you’ll find that the blood on the lamp is not the victim’s,” I say. “This is a waste of my time.”

“But the door was locked from the inside!”

I walk along the wall, hands feeling the rough texture of the unusual dry-wall pattern. It’s in geometric shapes in various sizes. 

“When will you stop using that premise to get me to a crime scene?” I watch the mother as I begin to tap along the wall. “Here. There’s a hidden panel obscured by the ridges in the wall.”

Lestrade frowns as he steps next to me. “I never would have known. How did you …”

“The mother is covering for her daughter. She knew about the hidden panel. She kept looking at that point on the wall.”

I roll my eyes and pull out my mobile to text John not to bother with the sitter. 

I leave Lestrade as I text John. He still hasn’t been able to reach Sandra. I walk along the leaf-covered street as I call for a cab. It has begun to rain. No park today, I think. 

I climb out of the cab and pay the driver. I am just walking past Speedy’s when I hear someone call out to me. He steps out from the shop's doorway. He’d been there to keep dry from the rain. 

Bradford Norbury is taller than I am by two inches. He’s blond, and I suppose he’s handsome in a conventional sense with his chiseled jaw and big brown eyes and thick lashes. But he wears an ill-fitting Italian suit with expensive mismatched socks. It’s an insult to the tailors on Savile Row and to cashmere enthusiasts. It’s also personally insulting. He is pointing a Glock at my chest.

“Come with me,” he says under his breath. “I might decide not to kill your partner.”

“How refreshing.”

He forces me into a waiting sedan at gunpoint. I sit down in the back seat with Norbury next to me with the Glock shoved in my side. 

I hate getting kidnapped, but I do believe John hates it more. He would much rather be the rescuer. It’s the BAMF in him. For me, it’s a trial in stupidity and often boredom. 

The driver looks back at me. His off-the-rack suit is too loose in the shoulders. His dark hair has too much product. His back is rigid, and the knock-off Ray-bans he’s wearing may hide his eyes, but not his toxic attitude. I don’t recall his name, but do remember he was a terrible counterfeiter, and a prime example of a man out of his depth. 

“Nice ta see you again,” he says as he turns around and smiles. I also remember that. His false smile and the gold tooth.

“Released for good behavior, or did you escape?” 

“Neither. I served my time.”

“Really? It’s been that long.” I give him a bored stare because I am. Bored.

“You took four years of my life.” 

“Nothing of consequence then,” I say and yawn.

“Dick.” Norbury punctuates his feelings for me with the butt of the Glock to my head. 

I wake to exhaust fumes and cramped darkness and a monster headache. I am no longer in the backseat but stuffed in a boot. Not the same vehicle. The tiny compartment is too small for a sedan. I’ve had enough time spent in boots to last a lifetime. Not only is it boring, but it’s damn uncomfortable.

I tick off escape routes. Mycroft had to have picked up my abduction off the CCTV since Norbury took me in plain sight. Switching vehicles could be problematic if the change was made out of the CCTV’s view.

My ankles are tied and my arms are in front of me, tied at the wrist. I test the rope. Nylon. I can’t move around enough to even try to pop the boot open, but I can shift around enough so I work to loosen the rope. I squirm and twist. Though much contortion I squeeze myself so that I can feel my mobile pressed into my hip under me with my hands relatively able to reach into my coat. My thumbs do the work as I send off a message to John just in case I can’t free myself. My captors are idiots, but Norbury is also a zealot. I’ve learned that stupid zealots are often unpredicably violent.

Despite driving in circles all over London, I deduce where we are going and let John know as much as possible while blind in a trunk and only able to tap on my mobile with one finger. The car stops and the boot pops open to the afternoon sun. I recognize where we are the moment my eyes adjust to the light. 

All I need to do is send one word more to John. 

Norbury and his accomplice drag me out of the boot and slam me on the pavement. I manage to save my face from hitting the ground, but my bloody palms pay the price. I'll be pulling bits of gravel from under my skin later. Norbury rolls me onto my back with his foot.

“A warehouse on the Thames?” I say, blinking up at them. “Could you be any more cliché?”

“Shut the fuck up!” He gives me a kick in my side with his ugly double-monk loafers.

I hate that. I don’t bother asking why they abducted me. Revenge. How common. I really need to get away from them, but his accomplice grabs a handful of my hair and yanks me onto my feet while Norbury keeps his gun trained on me. With my ankles tied, I can’t walk. This forces them to muscle me along on both sides, dragging me along by my arms. 

“Ya could try,” says Norbury. “You’re a fucking deadweight is what you are.”

“I see no reason to give you any assistance.”

“I should fucking shoot you right here.”

I roll my eyes and let them continue to pull me along. My bound legs flop across the pavement. 

When they reach the warehouse doors, they drop me while the accomplice unlocks and the scissor doors push open, it’s stubborn and the casters groan their reluctance. My captors’ distraction proves advantageous. It’s long enough to send John a fast text message. I roll on my side. I’ve messaged in more awkward positions. They don’t notice. Idiots. 

They drag me up on my feet so I can see my fate. There’s no need for lights, although one of them flips them on anyway for effect. Two large docks are at the end of the warehouse. The mighty Thames slaps quietly against the pillings. While the doors might not be well-maintained, the docks look to be in good repair. It’s a sunny day. The perfect day for a walk in Regent Park. Not doing that today. There’s something more pressing for me today. 

In the middle of the warehouse sits a spinning concrete mixer filled with cement. Next to the drum mixer sits a folding aluminum chair. A three gallon builders bucket rests in front of the chair. It only needs two feet and about three gallons of cement and approximately twenty to forty minutes to set up before I take a dip in the Thames.

How long will it take John and Mycroft to get here? I may have to do this myself. I can almost get my hands through the rope. All I need to do is get the Glock from Norbury. Shouldn’t be too difficult.

“Sit,” he orders. 

I sit in the cold, hard chair. My mobile vibrates in my Belstaff.

“Put your feet in the …” says the accomplice. 

“Yes, yes,” I huff a sigh of indignation. “Feet in this pail and you add cement. I do so love the Thames. Never thought it would be my final resting place. It does fit in with the cesspool of criminals that are drained into it. I, however, do not intend to be one of them.”

“You have no choice.” Norbury barks out a laugh. “Shovel in some of the damn concrete. Thank god it’s fast drying. I don’t know how long I could stand to listen to your arrogant mouth.”

The idiot leaves on my shoes, socks, and trousers. I almost laugh at his stupidity. They obviously have never read about using this nor seen any old gangster movies. Thank you, BAMF John, your obsession may very well save me. 

I do need more time in case I can’t get the gun.

“I feel as if I am in a bad action movie. Could you have at least procured a tank of piranhas that you could dangle me over. _Oh, oh_ ….” I bounce in the chair, “and with a torch burning away at the rope, each thread popping one-by-one.”

“ _Heart dying without air,”_ Norbury says. “Familiar?”

He cracks me hard in the face with the side of the Glock. Blinding pain bursts through my eye socket and cheek. My head flies back—an excellent opportunity to rock the chair and move my feet and legs. 

“Ah, the note,” I spit out blood at his feet. “You’ve read it.”

“I’ve also read that it’s painful to drown. Hurts like a bitch. Nothing is too painful for you after what you’ve done to my mum and others like Peter here. And the best part of it all is I can finally shut that mouth of yours.”

Oh. Peter. That’s his name, I recall. Peter Calhoun. My mobile begins vibrating again. 

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” says Calhoun. “Can we throw him in and shut him up?”

“Not yet. I want to make sure it’s set properly, but this should quiet him,” says Norbury. I flinch since it’s easy to see it coming. Another solid crack to the other side of my face. Right in the eye. This time I don’t have to intentionally rock the chair; it jerks back on it’s own. The world spins, then goes dark.

I wake with water thrown in my face. Thank god it’s not the Thames. Yet. I’m uncertain how long I’ve been unconscious. Norbury grins at me. He’s gloating. Must be that the cement has set up. About twenty minutes. 

“Stand,” Norbury orders.

I almost say no to that, but instead I half-heartedly rise. I lose my balance and fall back into the chair. Norbury glowers at me. 

“Knocking me senseless again won’t help,” I say. “I have cement attached to my feet. Did you think I was going to walk over to the dock and jump in?”

“I’ll get his legs, you grab him under the arms,” says Calhoun.

I’d try to roll my eyes, but it hurts too damn much.

As they carry me to the dock, they drop me. Three times. Despite their bumbling, I still could not get the Glock. They attempt to stand me up like a toy soldier on the dock but instead I’m more like one of Rosie’s wobble toys. Calhoun is pressed against my back and holding my shoulders. Norbury shakes me by the front of my coat. I see a crack of light through the door to the warehouse. It groans, but neither of them notice. A shadowy figure slips through. A soldier, a doctor, my best friend. _John._

I have to dislocate my thumbs, but I get my wrists out of the ropes. I sway to the side to snatch the Glock from Norbury’s coat. My fingers brush against the barrel, but I am still teetering back and forth. Norbury realizes my hands are free. My free arm wraps around Norbury’s neck—more for balance than to overcome him. 

I have it out of his pocket. My hand is on the Glock, his hand is on the Glock. 

“Drop it,” John barks out. 

“Took you long enough,” I say.

Norbury doesn’t let go. Instead he pushes me.

“Fuck this,” Norbury says.

I fall backward against Calhoun. Norbury turns his Glock on me. At that same instant, I hear the blast of a gun. I’m not shot. It’s from John. I hear a splash as Calhoun goes into the Thames. I’m going down as well. A slow fall. I’m waving my arms to balance, but Norbury whirls around, tipping me completely back and I land half on, half off the dock. My head is hanging down over the end. The concrete bucket drags across the planks, catching on a board. I dangle precariously over the edge, but I’m holding on to the dock with my fingertips. 

I’d loosened the cement considerably with my earlier jiggling and jouncing. It was possible that I could work my way out of the concrete since my socks and shoes and ankles were loose enough. The bucket slips off the plank, but catches on the next. I

I balance there, holding on and holding very still, hoping that the weight of my upper body doesn’t drag me completely over the edge. 

I can just see through the slats of the dock as Norbury drags himself closer to me. HIs blood trickles through the dock. I see his face as he reaches near the edge—I see the determination set in his jaw. He sees mine. And he grins as he pushes the bucket loose from the plank. As it rolls loose, I hear John’s feet slapping against the floor. Norbury raises his gun, and smashes the butt down on my fingers. 

I go in with a splash. 

As I go under, I hold my breath, but the water still burns my sinuses. I decide that now is the time to kick. I use all my strength and what I know about force and motion to free them from the cement anchor. Time slows. It’s yellow. All yellow. I kick and kick. My socks and shoes slip but my ankles hold. My plans to strip off my trousers goes immediately awry as my Belstaff gets in the way as my hands grapple in the yellow of the water. I keep myself from panicking. My coat is half off and wrapping around me in my struggles when the world turns amber. My lungs burn and ache for air. breath, but the urge to breathe increases exponentially. I kick with all my strength. I feel the snap and grind as my ankle breaks. I take in a lungful of the Thames, but I don’t give in. My legs are free!

But I’m continuing down. I’m sinking, and sinking fast. My coat. I see nothing, only feel. It’s eerily white behind my eyes along with the pain in my chest. I love my coat, but it needs to be gone. Now. I inhale, and water drags through my lungs. It’s more agonizing than the shot to my chest. It’s a struggle not to panic and drink in more as the flashes of past torture threathen to overcome me. My underwater hell begins switching off the light and going black. I am filled with sudden regrets. My heart. I will never be able to tell John what’s in my heart. I hope he knows. I hope he understands.

When an arm wraps around my chest and slips up under my arm, it’s like a piece of heaven. 

In the black, I know he’s there. It’s John. It’s his surgeon's hands that strip off my coat, and his captain's arms that grip me to raise me. We break through the surface. Glorious air. I gasp and choke. 

“John,” I sputter.

“You bloody fool,” he answers between his own gasps. He’s cupping my head and chin, guiding me as he swims to the dock. I hear shouting, but it’s John’s voice I hear. “I’ve got you,” he says. And he does. His arms that pull me on the dock. 

I spread eagle on the wooden planks, but John turns me on my side, and I vomit the River Thames. His palms sooth my back as my body shivers.

“You bloody, bloody idiot.” He pats me, then brushes his hand over my face. 

Voices buzz around. Lestrade looks at my leg and shouts for a medic. People walk around us. All the while, John keeps holding my hand. 

My BAMF has saved me. 

_Again_.

—————————-

I hate hospitals. John insisted that I had my head seen to and my ankle properly set. I let John pick the gravel out of my left hand. Any reason for him to touch me. I’d rather it was him that sewed me up and put the five stitches in the back of my head. His skilled fingers were far more preferable. John promised to watch me closely for head trauma. No pins for my ankle, but a cast. I also left with antibiotics for drinking a good portion of the Thames. 

“You’re lucky I got there in time. I almost resorted to your homeless network for a sitter,” John says. 

“Thank god for Molly. She’s always there for us in a clutch,” I said. John eyes me warily. “Or Sandra?”

“Mycroft.”

“ _Mycroft_? You left Rosie with Mycroft. When you said, you’d find someone, I didn’t think you’d ask my brother.”

“Sherlock, we both know how much he loves her. And so you know, he asked. We’re lucky to have him.”

I think I’m lucky to have John Watson. And Molly. And Lestrade. Even my insufferable brother. We get out of the cab in front of 221B. Or rather, John gets out and I hop.

“I still have my cane. I use it to keep the closet propped open. I could dig out and lend it to you.”

The old Sherlock Holmes would have come back with a snarky reply. This Sherlock doesn’t—he says, “I’d much rather lean on you.”

No hesitation. John blinks, puts his arm around my waist, and guides me. We hobble up the stairs together. Drunk, injured, or sick, it’s a repeat of so many other times we’ve leaned on each and climbed these stairs. 

At the top, a staggering swell of emotion envelops me. I feel like a Victorian maiden swooning. I see now why Eurus shut herself off from the world. The emotion overrides all. It’s a churning heat that ignites in my core. It’s a fire I don’t want to put out. So different than drowning. That’s its agonizing absence. It’d rather have this wash of feeling. Here he is, his arm around me, so close but so far. I have John, but I do not have him.

_But I could._

I see it in his eyes as he shuts the door to our flat. It’s quiet with Rosie gone. I’ve stared at his lips so many times, but I always look away when he catches me. John does the same. Now we both stare at each other’s mouth. We acknowledge, but our eyes remain transfixed.

“I’m going to kiss you,” John says. 

“Please do.”

And he does. 

Shelley was correct. With the press of John’s mouth, my “soul burns” with his kiss. Our “breath intermixes,” our “veins beat together,” my “inmost cells boil.” 

I am his and he is mine. He opens his mouth. His tongue is my center. 

I gasp. “We shall become the same. We shall be one spirit within two frames.” 

John laughs. “Is that the pain meds or you speaking?”

“Percy Shelley.”

“Glad we cleared that up,” he laughs and kisses me again. “As much as I’d love to continue this, we need to strip you out of these clothes. You need a shower and help. I don’t want you falling.”

I blush thinking about John helping me. He doesn’t blush at all. In fact, he appears very ... enthusiastic. He’s herding me across the room and through the bathroom doors. 

“Take off your shirt. I’ll be right back with a bin liner to slip over your foot so it won’t get wet.”

I’m sitting on the edge of the tub taking down my trousers when he returns. He’s brought two towels and a couple of flannels.

“He really took his anger out on your face,” John says. “How’s your head?”

“It hurts, but it’s not bad. It’s not as if I’ve never had a concussion before.”

John nods with a deep frown. I’ve said the wrong thing. I hadn’t meant to bring that up. 

“John, no. I know that wasn’t you. It was Eurus. I explained it to you.”

“I understand what you said about Eurus. God, Sherlock. But _I_ did it. It was _me_ who lashed out at _you_. I kicked you when you were down. I could blame Eurus to the ends of the earth and back for putting all of the thoughts I had into my head, but in the end, I did it to you.”

I wait for him to help me get my trousers over the cast. He kneels down in front me, tenderly slipping them over my foot. He looks up into my face. He begins to wrap my cast, making it water-tight.

“I am sorry,” he whispers. “So sorry. I will never blame you again.”

John gets off his knees and stands to turn on the tap, adjusting the temperature. He composes himself—or tries to. I am addressing and removing my pants. I would be distracted if our roles were reversed. He stops and quickly looks at me. All of me. There’s no lust there, but something that runs much stronger, much deeper.

Then John begins to take off his clothes. I sit and watch him unbutton his shirt, remove his undershirt, take down his jeans, and slip off his pants. No shame, no embarrassment. I can’t look away. He’s beautiful to me, my deepest fantasy. Faded tan and freckles from the sun define his chest, and the fine golden hairs shimmer. The scar on his shoulder is a badge of honor to me. 

“Here, give me your hand,” he says, “and I’ll help. I’ll steady you. There ... that’s it. Watch that foot. It’s slippery with the bag on it. I’m not having you fall over and hit your head again. I’ll take care of you.”

We slip under the stream. The water washes over us both, and John’s arm anchors me. He soaps up a flannel and hands it to me, but not before kissing my hand. His lips press delicately to each knuckle. The water is warm, but I shiver. As the water sluices over us, he washes my back, my thighs. His circular movements and massaging fingers relax my tense muscles. Having him touch me this intimately is rapture, but it’s nothing compared to when he reaches for the shampoo. God, he washes my hair. His sure fingers massage the lather into my scalp. His doctor hands take care to ensure my stitches remain dry. All the while, we’re both aroused, our cocks bumping each other's legs and buttocks. It’s the most exquisite torture. I don’t want it to end, and I am sorely disappointed when he turns off the tap. 

He helps me out. My legs are more unsteady than when we got in. He’s drying us both off. I can’t even try to do it. I’m completely absorbed in the moment. John begins drying my hair, his fingers vigorously rubbing my scalp through the towel. It feels heavenly, and I have to bite back a moan when John stops.

I’ve done it. _Spoiled it_. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out. We stand silently until he clears his throat. 

I almost blurt out excuses, but I stifle myself. There have been so many times I’ve ignored his words, made off-hand remarks to keep him from knowing how I feel or have been insensitive to his feelings. I’ve ignored him. I’ve even replaced him with a balloon. That is why I wait now. No ignoring, I need to listen because John needs to speak.

“I know what you haven’t told me,” he begins. “I figured it out.”

I am happy he knows how I feel.

“Eurus killed Mary so she could give me to you.” 

My eyes go wide in panic. It’s not what I thought. It’s not about me. It’s about Mary.

John shakes his head. 

“You can’t blame yourself for that, and I’ll never blame you for it. It was never your fault. I think about Mary or your sister. I could hate them, but what good would that do? They punished themselves. Mary’s plan to leave me ended her. I’ve thought a lot about it—what Eurus did to us. I tried to reach inside myself to understand why. What drives someone to do what she did? Then it suddenly occurred to me: it wasn’t an experiment. It was Eurus’ quest to discover emotion.”

We stand and he leads me through the door to my bedroom. He pulls back my covers, and helps me underneath. He tucks me in naked, and he makes it feel as if it’s the most natural and rational action one can perform.

He steps inside the bathroom and comes out with his tartan bathrobe.

“Mycroft texted. He said it’s late, and he’d already planned to keep Rosie overnight,” John says. “He’ll bring her back in the morning. Wouldn’t be surprised if he had Anthea run out and buy a fancy bed for her.”

I believe John is right. I feel a bit overwhelmed with this idea of Mycroft reading the bedtime story tonight. 

He takes a seat in the chair by my bed. 

“Ever the BAMF, standing guard,” I say and almost tell him to go to bed, that I’ll be fine. But he would stubbornly stay. He also needs to talk. He never talks. I figured when a BAMF finally has to say it, he just does it.

“First, you need to know that you’re one badass yourself. God, look at you. The way you handled yourself. You fucking broke your ankle kicking off cement shoes!”

I sigh. “You’re the real badass. You pulled me out.”

“At least you could escape,” John says and clasps his hands. “Despite all that she’s done to you, to us, Eurus is the one who is really trapped. Now that your sister can suddenly feel all that she’d done, all that she’d planned, all the pain, she understood. She’d discovered it. And when she finally found it? It made her a prisoner in her own mind. Where she’s at must be like a hell, worse than drowning in a well. After what she’s done, how could a person who suddenly feels guilt and empathy ever climb out of such a deep pit?” 

I don’t know how to answer him at first, then it occurs that for once, logic will not suffice. I wonder how much of this is about us. 

I reach out to him and he grasps my hand in his. “Sometimes we can’t climb out. Sometimes we must rely on someone else to pull us out, take our hand.” His grip is firm and warm. Comfort and hope wash through me. “And even if we let go, it can always be offered again.”

I realize then that he is crying and I am crying. 

“I love you,” he says. “I have for so long.”

“John,” I choke out. “Please, get in bed.”

“You need to rest. I’ll sit here.” He smiles, taking the chair next to my bed. “I don’t know if I could trust myself if I crawled in next to you.”

Under John’s thoughtful eyes, I fall asleep.


	7. Just Do It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to hotshoeagain for the steady and strong beta throughout this. You are right there on top of it, and keeping Rosie age appropriate and Brit picking my Americanisms. And a huge thanks to bluebellofbakerstreet for the ideas to help me bring this to life. I am grateful to you for inspiring this. Thank you so much for your winning bid for Fandom Trumps Hate. Finally to my past beta, recentlyfolded. Although you didn’t beta this, I kept hearing you whispering “show not tell” throughout. I think I followed it through with Sherlock’s voice!
> 
> Readers please note that I’ve added a new tag.

The next morning I wake to the crackle of bacon. A sharp pain radiates across my cheekbone and behind my eye. I cautiously touch my face. The edema on the right side of my face has left one eye swollen shut. The sharp throbbing competes with that of my ankle. It’s time for more pain medication.

John has left his cane resting against the bed. 

“Ha, ha, ha, John,” I say aloud to the open door. It hurts to speak. It hurts to move. It even hurts to lick my lips. It hurts.

When I try to stand, the cane doesn’t look like such a bad idea.

I use the bathroom without much problem since I can keep my weight off my cast with the help of John’s cane. As I wash my hands, I look in the mirror. I’m a horror and also very colourful: blotches and swirls of reds, purples, and blues. 

I hobble into the kitchen. Rosie is home. And Mycroft is sitting at the table, sipping coffee. John is in his morning multitasking mode. He nimbly hands a cooled strip of bacon to Rosie and fills my coffee mug. My heart beats faster watching the usual John with a jumper and jeans, who is looking at me with a most unusual smile. 

“Good morning, little brother.”

My head throbs, but it’s manageable. However, it seems even with John’s cane for support, the short walk around the flat proved too much. I limp past Mycroft and hobble my way over to the sink. John fills a glass of water and hands me two pain killers. I can’t believe John actually allowed them to prescribe codeine although it’s a low dose. Mycroft doesn’t even give a speculative glance as I pop them in my mouth.

“Mycroft. You’re up early.”

“Since six-thirty. It seems our Rosie has an internal clock. Also, the good doctor called to check on her.”

I turn to Rosie. She sees me, and her eyes go wide, her bottom lip quivers. I prepare for her to let loose a titanic wail. But it doesn’t come. It’s like a switch flips. The cognitive development of toddlers must include epiphanies—at least for our Rosie. She’s realized it’s me. 

“Papa, ouchie,” she says, pointing her finger. 

“Ouchie,” I agree. 

Mycroft actually smiles behind his cup as he finishes his coffee. He carefully sets the cup down on the table. 

“I shall be going now,” he says to Rosie. He stands, steps next to Rosie and kisses her head. “Do take care of your father and Papa for your Uncle Mycroft.”

Rosie's lips puckers up, and she makes kissing sounds. Mycroft offers her his cheek, and she gives him a bacony kiss which, to my surprise, Mycroft doesn’t wipe off.

We finish breakfast, and I listen to John clean up as I rest on the couch and watch Rosie play. I let her touch my face, then I point down at my foot. “Ouchie,” I repeat to remind her. I’m not sure if she understands that she shouldn’t try to dance on my foot or drive her toy truck over the top of it, but she nods seriously. 

John walks out to check on us with a tea towel in hand. 

“Shouldn’t you and Rosie be off to the park?” I ask. 

“I was thinking of staying home today.”

“John, no need to worry. Rosie expects walks especially when the weather is this nice. I will keep my mobile next to me if anything arises. I promise to stay on the couch and rest.”

With reluctance, John takes Rosie to the park alone. Rosie didn’t completely understand why I couldn’t come. It seems for toddlers “Ouchie” is not an excuse. 

After they leave, it takes less than a half an hour before I work myself up into a panic. He didn’t kiss me good morning. I didn’t kiss him goodbye. What if John has changed his mind? No, he wouldn’t do that. Or maybe he would. Maybe it’s something I did.

Or didn’t do. Why didn’t I say it back? He told me he loved me last night and I said nothing.

I decide to remedy that when he returns. I sit tapping John’s cane on the floor, waiting. As I hear them clomping up the stairs, I hold my breath. 

When John opens the door and puts down Rosie, she zips straight to me. Anticipating a collision, I quickly grab John’s cane and prop myself up, facing the door. Rosie stops at my feet. 

“Ouchie,” she says, pointing down.

“There’s something that I meant to say. I’ve always meant to say.” One side of my mouth isn’t working normally. I freeze. “I ... “ 

John looks at me expectantly. Rosie pats my leg. 

“I … love you.” 

“God, that’s a relief,” John says. “I didn’t want to have to change her name to Sherlock. One in the house is enough.”

—————--

That night after we put Rosie to bed and I finish her story, John stands outside the door of their room. He stretches and rubs his back. I am unsure if he’s waiting to help me down the stairs, or if he has another reason, which leaves me hopeful.

“It’s been a long week. I know you don’t think you need to sleep much, but I bet you're tired,” he says.

I nod and yawn in response. I am suddenly exhausted. I limp over to John.

He’s tapping the door frame with his hand and biting his lip. He’s deciding whether or not to ask something. I am almost certain I know what it is although I am often wrong when it comes to matters of the heart.

“I still have a concussion. I may need you to check on me,” I suggest.

“Yeah, I was thinking that myself.”

“But you shouldn’t be resigned to sleeping in that chair again. Your back is hurting. You can sleep next to me. My bed is big enough. And we can bring the baby monitor into my room.” I stop, recalling what else he said to me last night. “And if you can’t help yourself, I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind,” John repeats and licks his lips.

“No, not at all.” I yawn again, which hurts and I flinch. I see the concern on John’s face. I rather see another expression. “I’m suddenly dead tired. Mind if we turn in now?”

“Not at all.”

I use the bathroom first, and I carefully brush my teeth. The swelling has gone down, but the side of my face is even more colourful with added greens to the blues, reds, and violets. 

I wobble around washing up other key areas with a flannel before I let John come in.

John is humming in the bathroom, and I’m swaying next to bed unsure what to do as far as clothing. I prefer to sleep without. I decide to go with that. After finally struggling out of my sweatpants, I climb under the sheets and wait.

John comes in quietly, baby monitor in hand. He plugs it in on the table next to the bed.

I turn on my side and watch as he heels off his loafers and peels off his jeans. His t-shirt comes off, but he leaves on his pants. His thighs ripple as he bends low and straightens to walk over to the bed. He slides next to me and gathers himself close.

I never thought that John would enjoy the edge of the bed, but it is an instance of taking comfort in the uncomfortable, especially since he’s hugging me close so as to not fall off. 

Alone was what I had. Never again. Alone never protected me. It was a lie.

“I can’t believe I’m here,” he says. His whiskers burn as he rubs his face into the angle of my neck and shoulder. 

I can’t believe it either. 

We weave our arms around each other. He inhales, then exhales shakily and all the pain washes away.

The blog is correct. BAMF just do it. His tongue sweeps over my heated skin just below my ear. I shiver from the cool touch of air after his fever-hot licks. John finds a new patch of skin on my neck. God, I’m unraveling from spit and puff of breath. John the healer licks a tender cut on my jaw. 

I roll from my side on to my spine, and John moves from the precarious edge of the bed, covering me. He’s heavier than he appears. Solid. It’s a view I never thought I would see. His skin brushes against mine. It’s soft and his fine hairs tickle. He lifts up and looks down into my eyes. I don’t know what I expect to see, but it’s not that. A wicked little grin plays on his lips and his blue eyes sparkle like glitter. His unexpected weight lifts off me. Instead of pressing against me he’s hovering, poised above me with such care. Our bodies just glancing.Thighs, hips, chests brush with only a breath between us.

He’s teasing me. 

I love it.

He licks his lips. A precursor to a long swipe down my breastbone. Over my heart. I love John’s hands, how steady and sure his fingers curve as they explore each ripple of muscle and every rib. He’s checking me, making sure I’m healing and exploring parts of me he’s never touched.

His bold hands give me permission in return to touch on him places once forbidden to me. My fingers indulge in feathering through John’s silken hair. With his every moan, I can’t help but leave lingering kisses on his neck.

John’s clever tongue is only momentary distracted by me. He detours from its path to lap at my right nipple. He flattens it and teases me with each lick. I can’t help but try to gain more contact with his skin. I buck up into John, but he holds my hips to slow me so his sly tongue can follow a new route down my belly. 

I can feel his lips as he smiles against my groin. It’s intoxicating and makes me wonder what he plans next. 

He finds his way easily. I’ve wondered before if John had ever done this. My fingers keep caressing his hair and scalp in the same pattern he’s licking around my balls. I know it’s really not a blow job. It’s better. Instead, he’s lapping my cock. Hard flicks, gentle flicks. He uses the tip of his tongue on my slit and then flattens it against my shaft. My whimpers and moans only increase John’s passion as he flicks round and under my foreskin. Having my hands in his hair is no longer enough. I want to touch all of John, feel his cock in my hands. Make him cry out the same way he’s making me. 

I am about to suggest this when John tenderly helps me over on my stomach. He spreads my cheeks and licks me.  _ There.  _

Suddenly I can’t breath. It’s too much. John immediately notices my muscles tensing in panic. 

“Sherlock! Are you alright?” he says. He sits up, concern etched in his face.

I catch my breath. 

“I’m fine, only, could we …”

“I thought moving around for you might be tricky.”

“I know I’m not as mobile, but you’ll find I can be inventive.”

He takes off his pants, then gets on his hands and knees in front of me. I didn’t expect this. I am shaking, but determined to make this work. I stroke his haunches with my hands, and John goes down on his elbows with a groan. The angle is inviting. 

I slip between his legs and decide to give him a lick. He has marvelously firm buttocks. I spread them and lick him from his tailbone and down, then around his pucker. It’s obscene and exquisite. I flick my tongue over his hole. He’s twisting the sheets with fists and gasping for air. 

John moans. He’s wet with my saliva, and I am rock hard. John’s beautiful thick cocks pokes out. I do what I’ve wanted to do for so long. I touch him. I begin by running my fingers along his length, then I grasp him tight. He jerks his hips and swears as I stroke him. He buries his face in the mattress to muffle his squeaks and moans. 

Since I know John has a fascination with my lips, I kiss him there.

“Oh, God. Sherlock.” John reaches out and throws something at me. At tube of lube. I always wanted him, but imagined it would be me beneath him. I shouldn’t be surprised after what I’d read about BAMFs. It’s a high for them to give up control. 

“I want to feel those long fingers inside me first,” he says with a growl.

I’ve never done this before, but I’ve read enough and watched a few of John’s porn videos. I squirt the lube on to my fingers, but before I push inside him, I spread his cheeks open again and give him one, final lick, then stab my tongue into his hole. 

In this position my cast is of no consequence; it’s behind me along with any pain. I wonder if sex is always this way— a distraction from pain, from troubles. No, more than a distraction. I suddenly understand the appeal of sex. Better than any opiate. But it’s more than that. It’s who I’m with.

I love him. He loves me. I never understood what this could be, what we could be to each other until this moment.

Still, it’s tricky stroking his cock and attempting to finger him at the same time. I sigh. I have to choose. John groans as I stop stroking him. I reward him by sliding my index finger inside his arsehole. He’s warm, so warm inside.

The enormity of what we’re doing threatens to overwhelm me, so I concentrate on the beauty of what’s before me. I curl and feel around inside him, moving in and out of his tight opening. It’s amazing to feel how a quivering begins in John’s legs, and I begin to wonder if he’s going to come. I add my middle finger inside him and twist and turn them. John stills. _ Brilliant. _

“Sherlock,” he gasps,”if you’re going to fuck me, you better do it. Soon.”

His words send a jolt through me and straight to my cock. I swallow back a gasp.  _ Yes, better than any drug. _

“Do it,” he repeats. The muscles clamp down hard on my fingers.

Sparks are shooting behind my eyes, and it feels like needles are pricking up and down my arms and legs. My heart pounds. I remove my fingers and nudge the head of my cock against his opening. I slide inside slowly. I lean forward and marvel how well we fit together; how my hollows fill his curves. I live for his whimpers as I push myself in deeper. I’m inside completely with all his heat right there. 

He grinds back into me. He wants me in him as deep as possible. 

“Move,” John commands. 

_ So bossy! Alright Mr. BAMF.  _ I snap my hips in answer. 

“That’s it. Again.”

I snap them again. It begins the rhythm. Slow, steady, persistent. John pushes back on to my cock with each thrust. I grasp John’s hips to pull him closer yet. John’s head is now off the mattress, but it’s hanging low between his shoulders. His breathing is ragged. 

I reach around his cock and match the movements of my hips as I pump him.

I know I haven’t had experience with this, but I believe I’m doing a superior job. John is practically humming, and I feel as if I am flying. I realize that we’re both about to come when my toes curl. It’s not easy to do with a cast.

I marvel that I can feel his pulse through his cock. We’re both shaking, and he splatters over my hand and onto the sheets. I see fireworks exploding behind my eyes. I come deep inside him. Suddenly all I want to do is kiss him. It’s agony! I have to kiss him! It becomes a race to twist our bodies together and have our mouths meet. 

We fold ourselves up together, arms and legs as our breathing returns to normal. I turn my head to look into those trusting eyes. 

“Years ago, you said a romantic entanglement would complete me as a human being,” I say. “I have thought long about those words. You know it was never her. It was always you, but I have found that no person should ever be expected to complete another. Before you have love, really love someone, you must become a complete person first. It took me so long to get there. But I can say unequivocally, I am now complete.”

“When did you suddenly become so wise when it came to love?”

“By observing others, but most of all, I had to look inside and accept that I am worthy of love.”

“You are worthy. You have always been worthy.” 

He kisses me goodnight. While I have no superpowers, I am certain John Watson’s kisses are his.

Upstairs Rosie sleeps soundly and so do we.

——————————

We’re all on the couch together the next evening watching _ Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom _ when Mrs. Hudson returns with a bang and clatter. Rosie is beside herself with glee and leaps off the couch and hugs her legs. 

She loves Martha. So do I.

As I watch them, I think how important it is that I begin to say these things to people. I am not Eurus. I am not Mycroft.

“Mrs. Hudson,” I say, “it’s so wonderful to have you back.”

“Goodness,” she says. She waltzes over to John and I on the couch. She touches my face and I flinch. “What happened to you? Trouble always finds you, or you find it. Not sure which. But I see John’s none the worse for wear. You are in a proper good mood for looking like the world turned you on your head and beat you to a pulp.”

“I’ve got a lot to feel good about even if my bones ache.”

Her holiday gave her an extra sparkle, and those were new pearl earrings. 

She looks from me to John again, then toward my bedroom. “I don’t believe it.” She covers her mouth, then gasps and claps her hands like a schoolgirl. 

Sometimes I suspect she’s the better detective.

“I see you won’t be needing the addition! At least, not unless you want the extra room. _ Finally _ , my boys! Together.”

John smiles wide and takes my hand, brushing my knuckles with his thumb. 

She’s happy until she sees all the clutter on the coffee table. 

“You still don’t keep things tidy without me about,” she says, picking up a dirty plate. “What’s this?” she says. She picks up the note. “A poem? A love poem!”

“Yes. Do be careful with it,” I say. “It’s my heart.”

—————————-

It’s a week before John lets me walk with them to Regent’s Park. I could have done it days ago.

Rosie runs to the swings. He puts her in the usual bucket swing with the secure front. 

“She’s been learning how to pump herself,” he says. He sits in the sling swing next to her. I decide to take a seat in the one next to John. 

Rosie seems to have gotten the idea. She’s gaining momentum, her blonde curls flatten in the rush of the wind. 

“I’m impressed,” I say. I am, but I’m also a little disappointed that I wasn’t there to see the moment when all of John’s lessons finally proved successful. Another milestone in Rosie’s life. At least I was there for her first steps. 

As I watch her swing, I realize that I will be around for many milestones: Tying her shoes, reading her first words, first day of school, and her first chemistry set. We’ll make some of our own. I will unfold each memory and tuck it inside my heart to keep it safe.

John begins swinging next to her at the same speed. I do the same. Soon, we’re swinging in unison and laughing. 

After, we feed the ducks and swans. One of the male swans tucks one leg into his back as he swims in graceful circles around his mate. Bubble rings span out, encircling them. And while the bracelets of water expand and fade, the swans embrace, their long, graceful necks caressing. 

John takes my hand with a squeeze. 

For the first time in so long, I don’t feel alone. I smile at John and Rosie and know I never will be again.

“They mate for life,” John says.

I squeeze his hand back and answer, “Yes, they do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always feel a bit melancholy when I end a story. I know I have readers who feel the same. I know I feel that way when I come to the end of fanfic I’ve followed for weeks and months (and in some cases, years as with Bittergreens’ Over the Fathoms Deep. I think I shall cry a river when that ends). At least let us wipe those tears and take solace knowing that in this version, Sherlock and John get the happy ever after they so deserve.
> 
> Yes, Lennon and McCartney were right, “And in the end, the love you take is equal to love you make.”
> 
> I can say so much about the process and the decision to have BAMF John top from the bottom in this story, but it all comes from what I’d rather spend my last words on: the playground as a metaphor. 
> 
> We start with the seesaw and the control John has over Rosie and her safety, which Sherlock parallels to his own heart. It goes high and low, fast and slow, and is dependent on that big old brain of his to control it. Sherlock notes how well John tempers his movements with Rosie, how he’s directly next to her, not balancing on the other end of the seesaw. His heart his sure and steady. While her bottom rests on a hard, board slab, and she could fly up and slam down, John would never let that happen. Unfortunately, that’s not the same with Sherlock, and he notes it in the story. Well yes, Sherlock acknowledges he did jump off first, but he tried to spare John from harm. When John jumped off, it’s a painful drop. 
> 
> It’s all about trust (or lack of). Sherlock trusts John with his protection. He trusts John far too much in Moftiss’ world. John intentionally leapt off his end when Sherlock was at the highest point in the air. After Sherlock fell, John kicked Sherlock when he was on the ground. I hated that. I didn’t see it as something John would ever do. That’s why I inserted Eurus in this story as the one who pushed John off his end. But we can’t blame Eurus for all the harm done. I believe that most harm John inflicted was on Sherlock’s heart. He made him realize he had one then broke it by not acknowledging to Sherlock his love. Here the playground should become more than the work.
> 
> Frankly, I wondered when writing this if there are even seesaws around on British playgrounds anymore. They’ve all but disappeared on school grounds in the United States. Why? They are deemed dangerous. Aren’t the things we often enjoy that way? Seesaws (or teeter totters as we American’s call them) overwhelmingly had the highest rate of injuries on the playground. From 2009 to 2014 a study by the US Consumer Product Safety Commission found that 46 percent of all playground injuries came from that board that goes up and down. Swings and slides came in a far second and third at 12 and 11 percent respectively. Hence the removal of the seesaw from many school grounds.
> 
> Um, so what about that swing? It what Sherlock and John’s relationship has become. Sherlock has learned to love himself, trust himself. He is completed by his own acceptance of who he is. He is independent on his own swing. If he gets tangled in the swing, he could get hurt. If he jumped off when too high, he could too. Unlike the seesaw, it’s about his actions. With Rosie, John puts her in the child’s swing. Age appropriate. He teaches her how to swing, then let her go as high and as fast as she can. Consider the freedom of flying high in the air. As long as she and Sherlock hang on tight, they’re both in relatively safe seats.Finally, they all soar alongside and in unison, independent yet together. Safe with the ones they love.
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading and indulging me my final words. I appreciate all of you. In times like these, we need each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles are based on Sherlock's (and my) research on the characteristics of a BAMF. Our research found a humorous blog by a David Bourke, which upon composing this note, has taken his blog down. pleased to state it has become visible again: [12 Characteristics of a BAMF](https://www.mrdbourke.com/bamf/). Chapter titles come from his 12 characteristics and other ideas I found on the web.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are love (and also cathartic). We all need it right now. 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr**](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)!


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